Relative Discord
by Andriech
Summary: Chapter 12 & 13 up.The visit of a Fleet Admiral and his eight year old grandson seems little more than an annoyance until Chekov realizes who they are and the horrible danger they bring to the Enterprise. Some objectionable language in Chp 10&11
1. 1

There was something wrong with the pattern of stars. Chekov adjusted the view screen to 0 magnification and studied the star field displayed before him. It was nothing the sensors had detected, nothing any instruments had picked up--and yet he knew there was something wrong with the stars he stared at.

Like many people who ended up in space, he had grown up gazing at the stars. Happy memories of cuddling with his father and staring up at the darkened canopies of the heavens filled his childhood. It was even family legend that only the sight of the stars would soothe his fitful crying as an infant.

Of course, the Chief Navigator thought ruefully, part of his father's job was to collect and preserve fairy tales. He had found the man adept at creating his own tales as well, so the young man was quick to discount any such stories about himself.

Still…Chekov thought, his eyes raking the stars almost angrily. He did not have his father's photographic memory, but patterns instantly became etched into his brain. He needed symmetry to be at peace. He could not stand artwork to be askew, rooms to be disorganized: Sulu was known to move things about in his cabin simply to drive him insane.

Insane--like the stars he now stared at were driving him. His skin was crawling and his spinal cord vibrated resolutely into the base of his skull.

"Are you sure you want to do this with a Fleet Admiral coming aboard, Boss?"

Chekov turned wide brown eyes on Riley and fixed him with a steady and unwavering gaze. The 'Boss' comment was a good-natured ribbing that had eased Chekov's transition to his Chief Navigator position. Riley outranked him, had been in navigation longer, had been on the ship longer: but when the Chief Navigator had died it was Chekov the Enterprise's Captain had given the position to. A potentially explosive situation, he had found instead the entire Navigation department thrilled by the choice. He was not only a better Navigator than any of them, he was a better supervisor and they knew it just from their time working beside him.

He was the kind of supervisor that took the time to teach those working for him, the kind of supervisor that had earned a respect that made his team know, in a fundamental way, that any task he asked of them was important.

Chekov was also the kind of man whose sense of humor and irreverent view of life made him easy to work for. It was amazing how long he was able to hold the gaze of Riley's green eyes without allowing his smile to creep out. The Lieutenant dissolved first, laughing and throwing his arms into the air in a great show of melodrama.

"Fine. If the Chief Navigator wants the ship torn apart, than we'll tear the ship apart," he announced loudly as he spun on his heel and moved to dissolve back into the Navigation center of the ship.

"Riley." Chekov's word stopped the older man and he turned back, interest in his eyes.

The Chief Navigator gestured with his wide brown eyes past Riley, though the dark-haired person he'd seen had quickly vanished from his line of vision. "Who's that?"

"Nick Paul," the Irishman answered without having to turn. "New crewman that posted just yesterday. Good navigation skills, although personally…well, he's quite…intense." Riley leaned closer, his green eyes sparkling. "Already ousted the person in the 'most likely to be a Klingon agent' spot."

"Humph," was Chekov's response, understanding completely after only having briefly glimpsed the new man's glare. "Make sure he keeps all that hair out of his face," he added absently.


	2. 2

The skin crawled on the back of James T. Kirk's neck as he stood, straight-backed and immobile, in the din of silence that filled his ship's shuttle bay. Fleet Admiral Mikhail Leonov wasn't even in charge of this sector of the Fleet, he thought with irritation. Wasn't it bad enough he had to deal with his own Fleet Admiral as often as he did?

Space itself had been downright dull lately: routine missions with only a peculiar ion storm in recent days peaking his crew's interest. There was no discernable reason for the Admiral to be delaying the Enterprise, no reason for the man to be accompanying them for an interminable amount of time.

Kirk knew of Fleet Admiral Leonov only by his sterling reputation throughout the Fleet and had never had reason to think otherwise of him. Now, it had taken only one oblivious communication from the Admiral for the Captain's estimation of the man to turn sour and his expectation of the visit dismal.

As the Star Fleet cruiser settled into the spit-shined docking bay Kirk felt self-satisfaction in his ship and the life she carried aboard her. This surprise visit didn't need either warning or a flurry of activity to ready the ship. Not the Enterprise.

The Bo'sun's pipe split the air then with it's wild, unbridled shriek. It was a foul sound to most, but not to those whose life upon ships had come to see it as a comfortable ceremony that bound them to the long history of men who had journeyed into the unknown. To them the blast of noise was a life-affirming lifeline to the past.

The Captain waited with a military man's steadfastness as the Senior Starfleet officer disembarked the ship and decisively strode the distance to where he and his officers stood. The only thing missing in the precision in which he stopped in front of Kirk was a click of his heels. "Fleet Admiral Mikhail Leonov," he reported. "Requesting permission to come aboard, Sir."

"Permission granted," Kirk replied pleasantly. "I'm Captain James T. Kirk, commander of the Enterprise. Welcome aboard, Sir."

The man's broad face, prominent cheekbones and fine brown hair were clearly, undiluted Slavic in origin. He also had a conspicuous, profound nose and thick lips which Kirk noticed as he uneasily studied him closer. The Fleet Admiral's oldest son was a fellow Captain--a man somewhat older than Kirk, yet he now faced a Mikhail Leonov with a flawless continuance and entirely brown hair. The Admiral looked so…young.

"I'm honored to be welcomed aboard," the visitor was saying. "And pleased to have the opportunity to meet you as well."

"The honor is ours," Kirk replied somewhat honestly as he forced himself out of his reverie. "Your reputation far precedes you." The man took his hand in a beefy, strangled handshake. It was the kind of handshake that declared formally and instantly who had the power in a relationship.

The Captain was nagged subtly by the tone of the man's voice that made it clear he had not, in fact, ever heard of Kirk. He dismissed the notion as vanity and pressed on with the expected formalities. "Allow me to introduce the Enterprise's Command Officer's." Turning, he indicated the line of waiting officers in turn.

"Commander Spock, First Officer and Science Officer; Chief Engineer, Lt. Commander Scott; Chief Medical Officer, Lt. Commander McCoy; Chief Communications Officer, Lt. Uhura; and Chief Helmsman, Lt. Sulu."

The Admiral cordially greeted each of the officers, proceeding down the line with his fierce handshake. He stood silently at the end of the line of officers then, staring pensively at poor Sulu after folding his hands behind his back. Pale green eyes slowly turned and raised to meet the Captain's hazel ones.

"Captain Kirk, there appears to be a major deficiency in the make-up of your command team," he charged.

McCoy almost laughed out loud, but covered it with a cough before Kirk's glare reached him. The Captain nodded in reply and moved toward the Admiral. "You would be referring to our Chief Navigator, Ensign Chekov. He's currently involved in an overhaul and refit of our navigation system and I felt it in the ship's best interest to allow him to continue. You'll be introduced to him at a later time, if that's acceptable, Admiral."

The issue of an introduction seemed irrelevant to the man. "An overhaul and refit?" is what he asked with sudden intense, curiosity. "What kind of problems have you been experiencing?"

"None," McCoy rasped immediately. "The man just likes to routinely tear apart the ship for no reason. Frankly, I think he needs a good hobby."

Kirk's glare did reach the man this time, but Spock was already speaking.

"Mr. Chekov administers his department in a manner to best ensure its efficiency."

Appearing slightly amused, the Admiral smiled. It was a thin and obviously practiced gesture that never reached his eyes. "A starship Captain is dependent on officers that 'own' their departments."

"Indeed, we are," Kirk agreed sincerely. "Can I ask to what we owe this visit?" he pressed to the heart of the matter.

"Privileges of rank," the man replied with a trace of a somewhat guilty smile. Turning, he guided Kirk's attention behind him. "My grandson."

A startled Captain now saw a young boy standing behind and off to the side of the Admiral, where he seemed content to wait motionless and silent.

The boy had brown hair like the Admiral's and the telltale Slavic cheeks, but bore no resemblance to Leonov beyond that. His hair hung down onto his back, twisted neatly into a short braid; his lips and nose already carried the image of classic, fine features; and his enormous, soulful eyes resembled a warm, melted chocolate bar. The boy, by far, qualified as one of the most adorable children Kirk had ever seen.

All this occurred to the Enterprise's commanding officer in an instant but passed through his mind without any real acknowledgement. What occupied the Captain was the fact that the boy was, without a doubt, standing perfectly 'at ease.' This family drilled it into them young, he thought ruefully.

"Come here, Dimitri," the Admiral summoned. Obviously having waited to be addressed, the boy now moved over beside his grandfather and dutifully took his place at the man's side. He stood politely among the adults with his expressive dark eyes roaming about the group with bright interest. In an obvious recognition of their heritage, the boy had been dressed in a traditional peasant's outfit. He wore a crimson silk peasant shirt edged with fine gold embroidery and cinched by a black leather belt, black trousers and highly polished black boots.

The boy looked like a toy someone took down off a shelf: the most adorable little toy peasant doll imaginable.

"Dimitri Ivanovich," Leonov continued. "I'd like to introduce you to our host, Captain James T. Kirk."

The child drew smoldering, depthless eyes slowly over to the Admiral and let them linger there a moment before turning to the Captain. He proffered his hand to Kirk just like a real person. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sir."

James Kirk only noticed for a millisecond the calluses on the small hand, already took for granted the well-trained military decorum. What instantly struck and held captive the Enterprise's commanding officer was the enormous dark eyes that deliberately sought out his. Written clearly there was an apology that the Captain had been seemingly reduced to the post of cruise director by the Admiral's choice of words. Chekov's claim that a real Russian's eyes betrayed truths, which they learned to control, came back to him. The remarkable eyes Kirk now faced, when one caught their gaze, betrayed an intelligence and maturity hidden by the cherub innocence in the boy's face.

"Thank you, Dimitri," he said as he dropped the child's hand. What he was being thanked for the Captain knew the child would understand.

Oblivious to the silent exchange, Leonov continued. "I promised Dimitri a tour of a constitution class starship—in service—before his ninth birthday." The man gave Kirk a wry smile, shrugging. "I underestimated his memory abilities. I guess you could say my hand was somewhat forced and your ship happened to be available."

Kirk looked at the lad for a moment. He seemed to be a wholly pleasant child on first appearance and had impressed the Captain already with his manners, sense of propriety, and keen wit. He even felt a pang of regret. Not that large a pang of regret, however.

"Admiral," he enjoined. "A starship in service--especially in deep space--is no place for a child."

Kirk saw the color change in the Admiral's face and the man stood silent a long moment. Fleet Admiral's didn't get to where they were in life without expecting to get what they want while being wholly unused to being questioned about it.

Kirk, however, didn't have the finest ship in the Fleet because he let anyone treat it like an amusement park ride.

"Captain Kirk," Leonov finally intoned, and it was clear that he was controlling his voice. "This boy already has his first pilot's ticket and is working on his second. He can navigate a space ship and sailing ship equally well. He is advanced in his class work and could easily find his way around your computers better than many of your crew." Stopping then, he fixed his green eyes on the Captain deliberately before continuing.

"Dimitri here is quite gifted in many areas. He and all my grandchildren are the future of Starfleet and you would do well to remember that. My family supplied this Fleet with its genetic code and we have always been its lifeblood."

"I'm well aware of your family history and the debt the Fleet owes to you," Kirk stated patiently. How could he not know? It was legend and, hell, the Leonov's didn't let anyone forget.

A Russian Cosmonaut named Leonov and an American Astronaut named Jarvis had together chiseled out the mold and become the founding fathers of Starfleet. In fact, the Leonov family had been leading Earth's way into space since the first tentative steps off her soil. The first EVA, the first moon colony, the first Mars expedition: those born into the family now gave no thought to their future for they knew they were destined for Starfleet careers. There were so many of them in the Fleet you couldn't throw a rock without hitting one of them. Frankly, Kirk didn't know how he'd been spared having one of them on his ship. It wasn't something he regretted. Many of the Leonov's were arrogant, pretentious and downright mediocre now, their name alone serving as the only skill they needed to advance through the ranks.

"This is a ship of the line," the Captain repeated, "and there is no predicting the dangers we might encounter at any moment. It doesn't rest easy on a commander to risk the lives of commissioned officers, no less obviously gifted children who the future of the Fleet relies on."

The Admiral's eyes widened at that, both amusement and respect at Kirk's clever answer in their depths. He was not to be dissuaded from his decided course of action, however. "Captain, I'd wager that Dimitri knows as much about this ship as you do already. He'll be fine. It's me you need to worry about," he chuckled thinly in a poor attempt to lighten the situation.

Kirk glanced at the perfectly trained little solider standing next to Leonov. The huge, dark eyes of melted chocolate were fixed sedately on the Captain in somber innocence. Whether it was from the recitation of his skills, the memory of Chekov's words about Russian eyes, or the glimpse into the child's eyes he'd had before, James Kirk knew this boy was far from as innocent as he projected. His experiences with children on his ship before were always disastrous and a boy as cleverly manipulative as Dimitri clearly was made the Captain shudder. Obviously, family ties destined the boy for a career in the Fleet but it was an eight year old child who had wormed his way onto Kirk's ship. Clever _and _spoiled.

In the boy's wide brown eyes there then appeared hidden, toying amusement. Kirk straightened imperceptibly, fixing his own dark gaze on him. He understood far too well what thoughts the child was tormenting him with: _was a Starfleet Captain afraid of a little boy on his ship?_

Kirk scowled at him malevolently, his jaw shifting.

"Captain," the Admiral was asserting. "We'll just follow the Yeomen here and get settled in. I'm looking forward to the opportunity to acquaint myself with the operations of a constitution class ship from a sector of the Fleet I'm not normally familiar with. I'll contact you to make arrangements for the inspections I'll be interested in conducting while Dimitri, here, tours the ship at his leisure."

"Yes, Sir," Kirk replied, feeling nowhere near as cooperative as he sounded when the Admiral and the boy left, following the Yeomen carrying their bags.

"What an precious little angel!" Uhura exclaimed as soon as the door slid closed behind the two visitors.

"Admiral Leonov?" Scotty asked innocently.

She glared at him, pressing her hand against her chest. "No, Dimitri Leonov. He's such an adorable little gentlemen: a real charmer."

"Humph. It's the cute ones you have to watch out for," Sulu observed cynically.

"Gentlemen," the Captain cut in even though the amusement was easing the tension in his neck. "You're dismissed to go about your business."

"Jim," McCoy cut in as the rest of the group dispersed through the door. "I just have one tiny question." He waited until the Captain turned and gave him his full attention. "Please correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't the Admiral just tell you that he's going to be doing the standard inspections with you while that kid's going to be wandering freely about the ship—alone?"

There was silence as the Captain stared at the Doctor's steely blue eyes. It was apparent to his friend that the new thought was being analyzed. The blood slowly drained out of the Captain's face.

"Ah," McCoy nodded. "I thought so."

Mikhail Leonov was interminably, tediously, meticulous. Kirk felt his eyes growing bleary as he listened to the Admiral drill the Science Team. Well, the Captain granted, he was not actually boring Spock and his team in the Science Labs where they stood at the moment. He was just boring the ship's Commanding Officer.

He wasn't actually drilling the team either. The Admiral appeared to have a boundless amount of interest in everything aboard the Enterprise and seemingly could not get enough details. There was no end to the ability this officer had to dissect something down to the most rudimentary information. A skill which might be useful in a crewman or a junior officer, Kirk considered, but the Admiral's unwillingness to move on until he had beat every topic to death was simply mind-numbing to the Enterprise's commander. After all, this was more of a holiday for Leonov than anything with a purpose.

The Captain resigned himself to watching his crew and officers dealing with the Admiral while they moved about the ship. He found his admiration and respect for the people he was fortunate to have working for him renewed. A rare privilege, he supposed he owed the Admiral a measure of gratitude for the opportunity to see them from a perspective off his command chair.

A discussion of the unusual ion storm they'd just encountered drifted by him then. Characteristically, the man was genuinely interested in knowing all the possible details of the phenomenon he had never encountered before. Spock and the entire Science Team were willingly providing a wealth of information gathered throughout their missions.

"Admiral," the Science Officer cut in helpfully. "The Enterprise's science department staff can assist you to access our data banks and conduct as detailed research as you wish. Indeed," he observed, "You may be able to help with the new data we have just collected from the recent storm.

"If you would allow us to retrieve the information collected and stored in the data banks of your ship as well," Spock noted, "it would increase our fund of knowledge."

Kirk blessed whatever good mood in God had placed the Vulcan aboard his ship.

"While you're here," the Captain continued in a rush with a winning smile, and inspired by Spock's knowing diversion from his Captain's time. "I'll also have Mr. Scott take a long look at your ship to ensure a smooth return trip."

"That's a good idea," the Admiral agreed. "I appreciate the loan of your engineering department, Captain. I trust you to ensure that it doesn't interfere with the functioning of your ship."

_If I could ensure that you wouldn't be here. _"Is your grandson settling in?" Kirk asked, inspired by his thought.

"Yes," the man replied, gesturing absently. "He's about somewhere."

Kirk stiffened, his spinal column turning ice cold.

Smiling slightly as if he had read Kirk's mind, the Admiral turned away to accept a readout and study it. "Needn't worry about Dimitri, Jim. He's used to traveling and is quite independent. He can take better care of himself than I can."

The worse part of it was Kirk believed him.


	3. 3

Chekov lay back and relaxed in the cramped space. It was a peculiar thing to be able to do, but he had long ago developed the not-so-subtle talent. Tracing the pathways on the chip he held with both his eyes and a delicate finger, he searched with artistry for any abnormalities in its patterns.

"Are you the Chief Navigator?"

The young voice that drifted into his private sanctuary seemed eerily familiar. Was it the slight, but distinct, echo of a Russian accent that peaked some inner curiosity?

"If I am not, will you alert Security?"

"No." The voice answered with such a firm note of assuredness that Chekov smiled. "I would just assume the Chief was smart enough to get you to do his work. That's what I would do if I were him."

The Navigator's smile broadened as he put the circuit panel he was working on back together. Having heard the Admiral had brought his grandson aboard, he lazily wondered which one and he turned over their names and images in his mind. None of them seemed to match the descriptions he'd been given of this boy, however.

Chekov slid himself out from his tight environs and onto the deck. Sitting up and resting his arm on top of his bent knees, he looked for the child who had addressed him. "Unfortunately, the current Chief Navigator does not appear to be anywhere near a clever as you," he responded.

The boy was on resting on his knees with straight legs and a stiff back, not too far from where the Chief Navigator now sat. "Yes, well a boy can be clever, can't he?"

Chekov didn't answer this time. He sat paralyzed as the sight of the boy's familiar features filled his vision and took over his soul. Cold: instantly frozen from the inside out, the Chief Navigator had never felt such an empty vacuum of thought and emotion.

For the first time in his life he wished he were a Western Russian. Like all mature planets, the peoples of Earth had become nearly indistinguishable from each other, but in Russia there were those who stubbornly insisted on raising their children immersed in their traditional culture and values. They were referred to as traditional Russians--not always with respect--and you could always tell them apart from other Terrans. It was their eyes.

The child's remarkable chocolate brown eyes converged with Chekov's now, holding fast in a primitive union that left no room for pretense. The traces of the question in the boy flitted through and out of the depths of his gaze in almost an instant. He recognized the utter certainty in the Navigator's eyes which the man couldn't hide.

It erased all doubt in the boy: he knew.

Clearly uncomfortable with that information, Chekov's fist slowly closed as his jaw tightened. Where were they to go from here? What were they to do? More importantly, why was he completely unable to think?

He swallowed carefully, seized by the dread that any action on his part--no matter how small--would produce a chain reaction of disaster.

It was not so unreasonable a dread.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm touring the Enterprise with my Grandfather."

"You shouldn't be here."

Long lashes fluttered several times over wide brown eyes. "Where should I be?" he asked soberly after a moment.

The Chief Navigator stared back at him, his soul hollow and his mind a vacuum. "I don't know," he admitted. He sighed tremulously, the slight sound rippling through their shared silence.

"You're the Chief Navigator on this ship?"

The man's dark eyes remained somberly on the boy. He lack of answer weighed heavily on the air.

"When the Captain said your name," the child observed, "of course I wondered: but it never occurred to me that it could possibly be you."

"You should always consider all possibilities," Chekov replied quietly. "That should be obvious at the moment." Possibilities now inundated the Navigator's brain which brought it to a near immobility he had to fight his way past.

"You don't belong here," Chekov attested and he wasn't referring to Auxiliary Control. "You and your grandfather should leave this ship immediately."

"A assertion it seems the Captain would heartily agree with," the child smirked impishly.

The Navigator actually smiled at this, but he continued as sternly as he could. "You have to leave."

Shrugging in an elaborate gesture of simplicity, the child gazed up at him from under the long lashes. "I'm eight, remember?"

Point well made, Chekov thought. Childhood, even for spoiled Russian children, was a cautious, ever shifting balance of power with adults who wielded control over their world and lives. Whether the Admiral and his grandson stayed depended very little on anything the grandson had control over.

Eyes narrowing, Dimitri stared at Chekov as he sat lost in thought. "What's wrong with your voice?" he asked.

"Wrong?" the Navigator asked curiously, then suddenly straightened: becoming indignant when he realized what the child meant. "There's nothing wrong with a Russian accent!" he retorted.

"Of course not," the child agreed pleasantly, his own voice having only a trace of an enchanting lilt along its edges. "But what the hell kind of accent is that garbled mess coming out of your mouth?"

Dark eyes sparkling wickedly with a decided note of triumph, it was the man's turn to smirk. "I grew up traveling, so my accent isn't specifically regional."

"I'll say," the child snorted.

Indeed, anyone with a linguist's ear could identify regional pronunciations in Chekov's voice from St. Petersburg, Moscow, Siberia, Georgia, the Ukraine and several other areas of the far-flung Independent States of the Russian Federation. "Let's say I'm fond of variety," he said.

He received a grin in response.

"You being here is a problem."

"A problem for you," Dimitri responded levelly. "An opportunity for me."

"I have to get you off this ship somehow," Chekov said then, urgently, not replying to the comment. "And you can't be here with me: it's not safe. You have to go. Besides, your grandfather will wonder where you are," he added, feeling stupid as the words came out. It wasn't as if the boy didn't fully understand the reasoning behind his insistence, or that Chekov didn't understand the child's relationship with his grandfather.

They boy smiled again, but this time it didn't reach his dark eyes. "He wouldn't notice if I were sucked into a black hole."

"I think he would," Chekov intoned. "He would have to tell your father he lost you, after all."

This time the amusement did reach the boy's eyes and an urchin-like grin lit up his face. "That would be worth seeing."

"You need to go," the Navigator repeated, trying to make his voice stern: but he knew his eyes shared the boy's amusement.

"I want to talk to you. You can keep working: I won't get in your way."

"No."

He sat down on his heels in a defiant gesture. "I want to talk to you."

"You can't always have what you…" Chekov stopped suddenly, the child's sedate brown eyes making the startling words from his own mouth sound like alarm klaxons in his head. _Good Lord_, he fought to keep down the horror he felt at himself. _Have I been away from home that long?_

In Russian culture children were simply never told 'no'. Outsiders didn't understand why the rural villages were not populated with horrid, monstrous urchins. The culture they held onto so fiercely, though, guaranteed the survival of their tight knit communities and well-behaved children.

Sighing silently, Chekov shrugged slowly. He luxuriously drew out the type of words he heard echoing even now in his dreams. "If you want to stay and talk to me, than that's your choice. Of course, thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of people may cease to exist. Planets may explode, stars go nova…the very fabric of the universe as we know it could alter forever."

The child jerked to his feet, his face sullen and hard. Dark eyes glared at Chekov from beneath lowered lids. "I think you're being a somewhat over dramatic," he bit out angrily.

Shrugging again, the Navigator gestured broadly. "Than stay and talk. It's your choice," he reminded him.

Spoiled, yes--and made to understand from the very beginning of life that each action affected everyone and everything with a ripple that was unending.

The boy stood there without moving for a long moment, dark eyes fixed on the grown man's gaze. "I just wanted to ask you some things," he explained deferentially, folding his hands respectfully behind him. With just the slightest shift of his head, his eyes became liquid chocolate again and widened as he managed to gaze petulantly at the still seated Navigator.

_Did the child actually think the perfect little boy routine was going to work on him? _Chekov wondered with slight amazement. It had the opposite effect intended, making the man more resolute. He simply sat there in silence, returning the child's steady gaze.

Dimitri sighed lazily in defeat and turned and walked away. "It was bad enough that I have to put up with Dedushka, but now I have to put up with you too," he muttered.

"Yes, well if people knew you like I do, you'd be in chains."

The child paused at the door and turned to flash him an impish smirk. "How soon will you have the Captain send us away?"

It was clearly a threat, but Chekov's dark eyes filled with a caustic malice the boy recognized all too well.

The boy rolled his eyes and finally disappeared out into the corridor without further comment, but the Chief Navigator knew better than to think that he had won. His eyes drifted over to the viewscreen on the wall. _Wrong, _he thought again. _The stars were wrong. _

Quickly and swiftly, he reassembled the auxiliary control navigation station. It was not in his nature to do it less than perfectly, but at the moment he could not remember any task ever having taken so interminably long to complete.

He may have been meticulous about restoring the Auxiliary Control room, but Chekov found he had paid somewhat less attention to his own personal appearance after having been squirming around on the starship's deck. He shamefacedly straightened his uniform as he hurried toward the Captain's cabin and stopped long enough to brush any stray dust off the damn black pants.

Chekov hesitated again, his fingers hovering over the door chime. It wasn't that he was hesitant. It was just the ever-present irritated thought crossed his mind that he should be able to hear if the chime sounded or not. At what point had a knock become technologically inefficient?

He brushed his hand over the mechanism and the Captain's summons into his cabin told him it had sounded.

"Captain."

The Commander of the ship looked up at him from where he stood at his desk. On it's top was a sprawl of clearly disorganized and disarrayed papers, clipboards, computer tapes and stylus'. Kirk had several of these items in his hands and he was clearly searching, sorting.

"Mr. Chekov." Kirk returned the greeting curtly without looking up.

Chekov stopped the frown from creasing his forehead. The thought occurred to him, however, that it was not the most reassuring predicament for a junior officer to see his Captain in.

"May I speak to you a moment, Sir?"

The older man didn't hesitate in his frantic paced organizing. "This is not a good time, Chekov. Let me get in touch with you later."

If there was a hesitation, it was only in Chekov's mind. "Sir, this is very important. I need..."

"I said not now, Ensign," and Kirk hesitated to raise his hard, cold hazel eyes to the younger man.

Chekov didn't need to hear the tone, see the eyes, or even hear the use of his rank to know the Captain was irritated with the upstart young officer. He persisted anyway.

"It's ship's business, Captain. Important ship's business, Sir."

Kirk stared at him deliberately a moment. The junior officer didn't need to be a traditional Russian to understand the sentiment in the Commanding Officer's eyes. "I have a meeting with the Admiral, then a tour," he said without emotion. "I will contact you at a convenient time, Mr. Chekov."

The unsaid words were as clear to Chekov as the spoken ones. It was bad enough the Captain had to explain himself to his superior officers: he should never have to offer an explanation to a junior officer. He was the kind of commander who did it anyway.

Chekov stood there in silence, knowing now was the time to say 'yes, sir,' and exit without another word.

He knew more firmly that he should not leave this cabin until the Captain listened to him. In truth, in the pit of his soul, he didn't feel he should ever leave this cabin. Chekov was seized with the feeling that he was not safe out there, out beyond these bulkheads. _No one Kirk is responsible for is safe while the Admiral and his grandson walks the ship's corridors_, he thought.

"It's important, Sir," he insisted aloud, and he heard the accent in his voice fade. "It's about the Admiral."

Kirk was silent another minute and thought sourly: _It's all about the Admiral. _However, he knew Chekov better than to think he would barge in here with such fierce determination if he didn't think he had good reason.

"I'll contact you," Kirk repeated, but this time there was an acknowledgement of the young man's agenda in his voice. "I'm late." He looked back down at his desk in obvious dismissal.

"Yes, Sir."


	4. 4

Chekov stopped in his tracks when the door to the Captain's cabin slid closed behind him. Standing alone in the corridor, he suddenly became aware of how ridiculously wide and expansively long the ship's passageways were. The corridors went on forever, sweeping in every direction, and the Navigator quickly pressed his back instinctively against the bulkhead, feeling horribly exposed and unsafe. He felt free-form panic rise as the thought settled on him that he could not simply stand there cowering against the bulkhead for an indefinite period of time. If only because he was an officer and the crew would no doubt latch onto the notion that he appeared to have been sent to the principal's office.

His own cabin was next door, but the boy would have already figured that out. What was he to do? Where could he possibly go where he would be away from the boy and safe? Where could he go that everyone would stay safe? _Go away from everybody, _his mind said desperately. _Find isolation. Be nowhere..._

It didn't matter that the Russian language didn't even have a word for privacy originally. Pavel Chekov had learned from the people around him to cultivate the concept with guilty pleasure. Through careful investigation, he had even found that on a crowded starship solitude was still possible and he sought it out now with a vengeance.

The blackness of space filled his vision as he sat suspended in the midst of the expansive starfield. From here the panorama was perfect. No magnification distorted the view; no projection from the computer of an image that belonged elsewhere obstructed the mind. He pressed his palms down on the walkway's edge and leaned out from under the railing. Peering down at his booted feet dangling among the stars gave him the sudden, thrilling impulse to launch himself off the walkway into a freefall among the luminous, heavenly jewels that surrounded him.

"You're avoiding me," came a subdued observation from the doorway.

A chill gripped him at he sound of the voice. He sighed and let resignation settle into the very pit of his soul. Of course he knew from the very beginning that he was defeated.

"I told you to go away," he responded flatly without turning his eyes from his feet hanging amidst the stars.

"I did. I found you again."

"Fine. Now go away again."

"I want to talk to you," the child persisted.

The voice, so eerily familiar, caused his ears to ache. Chekov straightened, but he let his deep brown eyes only rise to the starfield directly in front of him. "So you've told me. It isn't wise," he answered tentatively. He didn't know why exactly--but Dimitri's presence scared him.

"Why?" The youngster's words were even and determined: a maddening simplicity for any adult to combat.

The older man drew a ragged breath and tried to seek solace in the stars before him. "No one comes to this Observation Lounge," he said, avoiding the question. "How did you find me?"

"I checked the blueprints in the ship's computer. This is the only view of the stars on the ship that's actually a window, not a viewscreen. I know you, remember?"

"Don't turn on the lights!" Chekov snapped as he sensed the movement. He shifted his eyes and watched as the boy dropped his arm dutifully from the light switch he'd been reaching for.

The child stood there a moment: not hesitantly, but calculating. He turned his eyes to the rows of benches rising in the darkened gallery on the other side of the walkway briefly before looking over at the Navigator. "Why are you sitting on the floor in the dark?"

He received no answer, so he moved soberly over to where Chekov sat and quietly climbed down onto his knees. Letting his hands come to rest on his thighs, the young man raised his eyes up, peering under the protective rail at the massive window that filled the expansive wall of the room. He then let their dark depths follow along the curve of the window as it disappeared under the walkway.

"Oh," he said breathlessly in understanding, then giggled as Chekov instinctively reached out to stop the boy from leaning out too far and falling under the deck.

"Yes," the child quipped. "You best: Lord knows what a klutz I am."

Chekov turned to look at him finally. The young face was bathed in the shadows of the dark room, but the eyes were brilliant with self-satisfied amusement that came not entirely from the reflection of the stars. He studied the face—the classic Muscovite bone structure and features—and the fine brown Russian hair with just a hidden trace of red beginning to creep in. The child's eyes were a reflection of Chekov's people: wide and expressive, able to somehow communicate more than most people could with words. It was the utter, depthless darkness that the Navigator occasionally caught a glimpse of in those eyes that held his attention: it spoke clearly of at least some non-Russian ancestry.

"You've never fallen have you?" the boy finally asked. Chekov saw in those eyes now that Dimitri had knowingly waited, patiently, until the older man's scrutiny was complete.

"I'm not eight."

"Neither will I be next week," came the quick reply, and he turned to squirm around and hang his feet over the edge like Chekov. He leaned out over the edge again and the Navigator clenched his teeth to stop himself from restraining the boy.

The man turned his attention, instead, to imitating the child's movements. They sat there in silence a long while staring out at the stars together. While Chekov was just enjoying the rare view, it became apparent the child was engrossed in contemplation. "They don't give you many opportunities for EVA's, do they?" he surmised.

The Navigator eyed the Dimitri warily, recognizing immediately the scheming child's attempted manipulation to get him to talk. This particular question did seem benign, though. "No," he finally answered. "We train in the Academy, and EVA's are occasionally needed in deep space, but not often." Staring down at the stars again, he smiled slightly at the child's instinctive understanding of what drew Chekov to sit here. "This is usually the closest thing to a spacewalk on the ship without actually going AWOL." He found himself self-satisfied that hadn't played into the boy's hands. Or so he thought.

"You would think," Dimitri drawled carefully, and turned calculating eyes on the Starfleet Officer, "that routine drills would ensure that you'd do the most efficient job when called upon."

Chekov's eyes widened in alarm at the demonic, triumphant look in the child's eyes. He growled deep in his throat. "You can't go around changing things."

"Bet I can," the boy quipped.

"You're a little shit," the Navigator blurted out in frustration.

"You would know," Dimitri shrugged. He began swinging his leather boots in happy rhythm.

"Spacewalks are in my blood," he continued easily. "It's genetic: Alexei Leonov did the very first one on March 18, 1965."

"So you've taken the first step in becoming the next Leonov family historian," Chekov commented with ill humor.

The boy twisted his head around on an angle, letting his wide brown eyes stare at the older man blankly as he blinked his long lashes several times.

"Alexei was one of the first twenty cosmonauts chosen in 1959," Dimitri stated simply after a moment, turning back to look at the stars with some amount of disinterest now. "He was scheduled to be the first man on the moon, but the launch was cancelled after the launch pad explosion in Balkynor. He was also scheduled…"

Letting his eyes close, Chekov let out a groan. He had, after all, walked right into this.

"…and it was a good thing he got sick, because all the cosmonauts on that flight died in space when they ran out of oxygen. Alexei did fly the Soyuz-Apollo hook-up flight later, though."

"And when he retired he became an artist, which is what he intended all along," the Navigator interrupted irritably. "I do know something of space flight history."

"I'm working on Dedushkato let me start doing EVA's soon," Dimitri continued, as if having not heard the older man. "I want to do lots of them when I'm in the Fleet too."

Chekov fixed a cold stare at the child. "In Russia children may be spoiled, but don't expect the rest of the universe to give you everything you want."

The child stood, and grabbing the rail, twisted down to eye the man, the light in his eyes dancing. "Your semantics are wrong. In Russia, children know how to get what they want. And it's a skill I imagine the clever ones don't forget." He flashed a mesmerizing smile, as if in illustration.

Chekov scowled dramatically at the boy and turned away, looking down but not seeing the stars. It didn't matter because he could still hear the child giggling outlandishly at the older man's attempt to hide his smile.

"Tell me," he asked. "Are you planning to torment me the entire time you're here?"

"I don't know. It had occurred to me."

The Navigator turned back around to fix his gaze on the child. "You found me again. You talked to me like you wanted. You even found a way to wreck havoc in both our lives while you're here. Now why don't you go wander away again—find someone to talk into giving us more EVA's," he suggested, knowing it was the boy's intention anyway. With a sinking feeling only a baited animal could have, he braced himself for however it was the boy was figuring to manipulate him. "I'm waiting to tell the Captain that you need to leave. So go away."

The boy twisted his arms around the railing. "I suppose I could go explore the Bridge. It is the heart of the ship and I haven't been up there yet. Uncle Grigory lets me spin in the command chair when I'm on his bridge."

Chekov's eyes shot open in alarm and he would have gasped with horror had not all the air been pounded out of his body.

"I could go to Engineering too, and I could play with the transporters," Dimitri continued, twisting about the railing with utter happiness.

The sledgehammer was pounding repeatedly into Chekov's chest.

"Uncle Grigory would let me and he's a Captain. So Captain Kirk wouldn't mind…after all, all Captain's are the same aren't they?" The boy's patent stare was downright demonic. "Aren't they?"

The Navigator blinked several times, willing himself to breath again. Despite expecting it, he was still genuinely impressed with the swift, bloody attack the child had settled on.

Dimitri tilted his head down without moving his gaze. The eyes fixed upon Chekov were neither warm nor brown. They were dark and gleaming—shining up through his dark lashes to intensify the effect. A slow smile creased over his face then. It was a smile that could only have been rivaled by Satan's when he was given Hell to reign.

The Navigator pulled his knees up against his chest and wrapped his arm around them. _If I can't keep myself safe from this willful child, what hope does the rest of the ship have? _he wondered with hollow dread.

"You want me to give you a tour of the ship," Chekov stated finally, staring back at the child and wishing he could feel more defeated than impressed.

"Well, I can get to most places, you know. I want see the more important areas, though, and I can tell Kirk is the kind of Captain that expects his ship to be respected. Besides, I should have supervision when I'm not in my cabin: I just can't roam around freely. I am, after all, only eight."

Dimitri's eyes had shifted again and Chekov met in the shadows the wide-eyed glimmer of practiced innocence in the dark gaze. He twisted his head away swiftly and snorted involuntarily—the air escaping his mouth as his body shook.

The boy straightened, blinking at him suspiciously. "What? Are you laughing?" he demanded.

The man turned back to the child then and let a brilliant, gleaming smile sweep over his face and spill over into his dark shining eyes. "Yes," he said, allowing the laughter to overtake him then.

"I've never been on the receiving end of your particular…charms," Chekov concluded when he was able to stop chuckling.

The innocence sank out of the boy's eyes then, and their depths reflected maturity beyond his years. "My father taught me well," he observed with a conspiratorial smile.

"Oh, please," Chekov intoned as he shook his head. "You were taught by a person that can get anyone to drop at their feet." He stood up then, bending over so his sparkling eyes met the boy's gaze. "Your mother is the architect of your particular talents."

The child hid an urchin like smirk of agreement on his features.

The Navigator sighed lightly then: they both knew who had won this particular battle of wills. Frankly, Chekov was exhausted by the effort. He took the boy's hand and straightened back up. "Let's see what we can do about a tour," he said. _At least it will pass the time, and minimize the danger while I wait for the Captain._

The child hesitated when Chekov tried to move him forward. "Mr. Chekov," he said, "My name is Dimitri Ivanovich."

The man eyed him curiously a moment. He had not, in fact, called the boy by name yet. "Is it now?" he asked, a strange tone in his voice. Dimitri Ivanovich had been Russia's first hero. "He changed the world," Chekov finally said. "Tell me, Dimitri Ivanovich, are you going to change the world?"

The boy's face was completely overcome by a petulant scowl. "I don't even like to change my clothes!" he blurted out.

The laughter burst out of Chekov unavoidably. Grinning wickedly, the boy pulled him out of the lounge while he was still laughing. _Maybe the kid won't be that horrible to be around a short while, _he thought.


	5. 5

Kirk recognized the utterly ethereal look on the man's face and withheld a smirk he would rather have let show. Human women usually inspired such a guise on a man's face, but with the Enterprise's Chief Engineer females of another sort were more often than not the cause. Strolling up beside him, the Captain let an easy smile spread over his features.

"Mr. Scott," he said. "I take it the Admiral's ship meets with your approval?"

"Aye," the man grinned boldly, his eyes shining with delight. "She's a beauty."

The Captain's smile thinned at Scotty's enthusiasm. There was apparently nothing here to take Leonov's attention away from Kirk's ship.

"Captain, I've never seen such a fine antique," Scott continued. "Although I expected a newer model for a Fleet Admiral--top of the line, if you know what I mean."

Kirk shifted his weight from foot to foot, his gaze glancing over the lines of the Admiral's ship next to him. "Antique? What do you mean?"

"This class of cruiser stopped being constructed fifteen years ago," the Engineer explained, gesturing as he moved over to the ship in question. He took a moment to slowly run a hand along the hull.

"This lady has been loved, Captain," he said with a sigh of admiration. "She is in absolute pristine condition. This ship has been maintained so well and kept so clean, if I didn't know better I'd say she hadn't been in service more than a year or two." His voice had a note of wonder in it as he spoke.

The Captain did allow himself to smirk this time. If the Enterprise's Chief Engineer could understand only one thing in the universe, it was the devotion he saw that some unknown person had given to care for this small cruiser. A large part of the shine in the Engineer's eyes Kirk recognized as respect for whoever that person was.

While Scotty could understand the care some unseen person had given this ship, it was the Admiral's obvious indelible bond to her elusive soul that touched something deep within Kirk. Not every ship bound herself to her commander like this and James Kirk could not help but idly wonder what the Admiral and this lady had seen together that caused him to keep her with him after all these years.

That the cruiser's pristine condition gave the Admiral no cause to linger with her—and free Kirk—settled like an oppressive weight on the Captain. _Then again, that means there's nothing to delay Leonov's departure, _thought Kirk: _except that damn kid._

"Thank you, Mr. Scott," he intoned easily before strolling over to the control panel where the Admiral stood.

Turning as the Captain approached, the senior officer gave him a smile of practiced pleasantries. "Captain," he said. "I'm going to stay here until Mr. Scott is finished and then he's going to give me a look at Engineering: if that will fit into your schedule," he added, as though the Captain had any say in the matter.

The relief had to be evident in James Kirk's eyes and he wondered vaguely if the Admiral was telepathic. He flashed the man a handsome smile—a human gesture that signified nothing more than non-hostile intentions. "That will be fine, Sir," is what he said. "Be sure to contact me when necessary."

"Yes, yes: of course," came Leonov's absent reply.

The Captain moved to the edge of the control panel, letting his eyes drift over the indicators there. He wasn't actually looking at them, as there was nothing in the display to interest him. All he needed to know at the moment was if the shuttle bay had a breathable atmosphere and he was, after all, standing erect. Reaching out, he let his fingers tap a gentle pattern over the control panel.

He had to give credit to the Admiral for having a sound knowledge of how a ship ran beyond what the blueprints showed. The man was only using Kirk as a basic tour guide, the Captain acknowledged. At each department, Leonov latched onto the Chief of the department for his in depth tour and information. The man also made sure to connect with the people who made up the department: showing an innate understanding very few senior officers seemed to grasp.

The Admiral's tour was the least of the Captain's worries at the moment. "Your Grandson…I hope he's finding his way about the ship?" Kirk had heard nothing to concern him, but that was what deeply concerned him.

The Admiral looked up and, tilting his head, turned his full attention to the Captain. He flashed an amused smile. "You needn't worry. I told you, Dimitri's parents drag him all over constantly. He had learn how to get along on his own at a very young age."

Kirk let his hand fall off the panel. The complete dismissal he clearly heard in the older man's words left him cold with subtle dread. "He must be lucky to have a stabilizing influence like you in his life," he observed carefully. "Are you able to see him often?"

The man sighed heavily, a growl buried somewhere in the sound. "A few years back Dimitri got it into his head that he wanted to join the Fleet. When he calls, I send someone to get him." The Admiral scowled and shook his head with distaste. "I'm hoping this trip finally gets that damn fool notion out of his head and I can spend my time in more fruitful matters."

Kirk stilled as he studied the man with interest. "I thought every Leonov joined the Fleet, Sir."

"Eh…" the man growled again, scratching the back of his head as if he was ridding himself of some infestation. He turned and strolled into main area of the shuttle bay. "Dimitri's no Leonov: he's my daughter's child."

"Admiral, that would still connect him to the Leonov bloodline," the Captain observed, keeping his tone respectful as he moved to follow the man's steps.

"Dimitri is his father's son," the senior officer man declared with a bold, dramatic voice. "He looks like him, talks like him, acts like him—he even walks like him. The man already has him in that ridiculous navy, or didn't you notice the braid?"

"The Russian Navy?" Kirk asked, stunned at the man's attitude. The question itself made no sense and he was embarrassed as soon as the words escape his mouth. Only one Navy currently existed on Earth, and in fact the sailing ships it was comprised of were merely living history museums. "I have the greatest respect for the vision the Russian Federation showed in preserving the Earth's maritime heritage."

"Vision!" the Admiral exploded with fire in his green eyes. "That 'vision' is an insane and dangerous waste of time and resources. No one will be able to silence the outcry the first time some poor fool dies on one of those 'romantic' deathtraps that were once safely killed with the birth of the twentieth century!"

Kirk took a practiced moment to pause before speaking to the senior officer carefully. "Sailing ships did offer dangerous occupations to those who worked on them," he said. That Leonov's grandson was one of those people in danger, and yet he saw no future for him in Starfleet, as an alternative, was puzzling. The Captain spoke carefully again.

"Given how gifted Dimitri is, it seems he has a promising career ahead of him in the Fleet, despite any current resemblance to his father."

"Oh, he's gifted, yes," snorted the Admiral, and his boots echoed his weight on the deck as he moved. "He is bright, likes to learn, is ahead in his studies and already knows several languages. But those aren't his gifts," the man continued, brushing that idea aside with a hand. "Oh, no. Dimitri can belt out a song that will make you weep, can blind you with the power of a tap dance and can work an audience as though they're nothing more than wet clay.

"Dimitri Ivanovich," he spat out, "Is Russia's version of Shirley Temple."

_Well, _thought Kirk with irony, _I certainly hope they don't curl the poor boy's hair. _

"You ever hear of a tap-dancing captain?" Leonov snarled with derision. He stopped by his ship and turned to regard Kirk.

Hazel eyes meeting the man's green ones, the Captain flashed a wry smile. "I know of one that sings opera," he quipped.

The older man remained regarding him without a change in countenance, making his opinion of Kirk's humor more than clear.

"He really is one hell of a performer, Captain," the Admiral went on with a reluctant note of respect in his voice. "We'll eat lunch at the Captain's table tomorrow and I'll arrange for him to perform: you provide the food, I'll provide the entertainment."

Kirk stared at him in thinly veiled horror, wondering how having children on his ship always got him into these ridiculous predicaments. He wondered too how incredibly bad this child's 'talent' really was and how horribly long the 'performance' would be.

The horror obviously showed because the Admiral smiled easily. "Really, Captain: your Shirley Temple was an amateur compared to him."

James Kirk decided instantly that he was going to have to force others to suffer through lunch with him.

"Than I'll look forward to it," the Captain lied in a pleasant tone. "As for Dimitri's future in the Fleet, I wouldn't rule anything out. After all, he is only eight: I know my father's influence helped keep my interest alive."

The Admiral sighed heavily, bringing his hands together before him to twiddle his thumbs. Kirk straightened fiercely, as he knew from Chekov that Russian's used the gesture to indicate a person had lost their mind. Did the man assume he wouldn't know this? Kirk thought bitterly.

Leonov scowled then, shaking his head. It became clear he wasn't referring to his current companion by the gesture. "Dimitri's father is addled, I'm afraid, Kirk. The man rewrites fairy tales."

The Captain stood there stiffly for a long moment as he tried to process such strange, incongruous information. "I'm sorry, Sir. You said…"

"He rewrites fairy tales. You know, 'Hanzel and Gretel', 'Jack and the Beanstalk'."

"I see," Kirk responded, although he certainly did not have any grasp of how that could be an occupation. He held onto the idea that the man was mentally ill. "There are cures, Admiral."

The man laughed sarcastically at him. "Captain, you can't force someone to accept treatment. His father has the family living in one of those peasant villages," he sneered. "It's impossible to get someone out of those cults."

Kirk shifted the weight on his feet. "Dimitri lives in one of the Historic Districts?" he repeated, intrigued. His Chief Navigator had also been raised in one of the nineteenth century areas where they taught traditional Russian culture and values.

"God, yes," the man almost moaned. "I don't know why we wasted our time trying to force them to move into modern areas. They'll all die of starvation eventually anyway."

Trying to still his insides, the Captain stood silently for much longer than he knew was polite. Still, it was better than throttling the Admiral. He was a Fleet Admiral, after all, Kirk reminded himself. The Captain, however, had unending admiration for the Navy and deep respect for what he had learned about Chekov's people in the short time he had known him. His respect for Admiral Leonov was all but disappearing. He may know Fleet business, but he seemed to know very little about people. The Captain realized now that the man's dealings with his crew were simply as cogs in the machinery.

"Even peasant villages have the ability to turn out people with exceptional abilities," he noted.

The Admiral chuckled absently, green eyes distant. "Oh, it's not as though any village or Fleet tour will affect his future, anyway," he commented. "The whole world has known my grandson's future since he was five. Dimitri Ivanovich is Mother Russia's answer to Mozart, Captain."

"I thought Tchaikovsky was Russia's answer to Mozart," Kirk quipped instantly, even though he knew the man was referring to the boy's young age. _Shirley Temple and Mozart,_ he thought cynically. _Well I hope the boy doesn't do them both at once._

Green eyes stared at him again. "Dimitri Ivanovich won the European Piano Competition this spring," he stated, deadpan.

"I didn't know they had a junior division."

"They don't."

_And that,_ Kirk thought,_ must have pissed off a whole lot of adult competitors. So why does my ship have to be the instrument to burn out all of the child's fantasies about his future endeavors? _"Than I'm sure he has a bright future," is what he said aloud. "Admiral, I've kept you from your tour long enough. I'm sure Mr. Scott will assist you in whatever way you need."


	6. 6

The Captain of the Enterprise felt addled himself as he made his way to the Bridge of his ship. The underlying, festering irritation that was pervasive to every one of his thoughts would not go away. A Fleet Admiral from some other part of the Fleet didn't belong on his ship, especially not for the inane reason of some kind of pleasant holiday. A child wandering about alone most certainly didn't belong aboard her and Kirk couldn't help but feel the ship he was bound silently to protect was infested with some moldering virus.

The child's big, dark eyes and general pleasantness haunted him. Kirk knew from Chekov that in Russia's rural villages the children roamed about freely and everyone was expected to keep an eye on them all. Although not the cults the Admiral claimed they were, the communal nature of the villages certainly accounted for Dimitri's apparent ability to thrive with a mentally absent father and for his father to subsist without obviously needed medical attention.

Dimitri wandered alone on the Enterprise as well, but here no one monitored his not necessarily benevolent behavior. The Admiral appeared to expect nothing of the child but to exist until he took his rightful place in Russia's cultural future. Without the restraints and expectations of his natural environment, the child possessed an unlimited potential for havoc.

As he stepped into the lift, Kirk considered what Pavel Chekov must have been like as a peasant child. It was not surprising that the thought brought to mind Andrie Chekov, his Navigator's father. The man had outright adopted Sulu into their family and Kirk leisurely wondered if he would likewise welcome a child. If Dimitri was only given the kind of attention and stability any young person deserved, perhaps the Earth's 'next Mozart' wouldn't grow into the complete monster Kirk envisioned an adult Dimitri as.

The Captain had met Andrie once when the ship had run across his path and although the meeting had lasted less than five minutes, he was the kind of man who left an impression. Instantly his thick, curly black hair, neatly trimmed beard and Russian mustache gave Kirk the idea that father and son bore no resemblance to each other. The man's fierce, joyful, grasp of life and all-encompassing irreverent sense of humor quickly changed that notion.

On first view his wide, brown eyes seemed to mirror Pavel's as well: but it took only a second to move beyond that idea. When Andrie looked at you he became absolutely absorbed and the unnerving sensation that the world around had vanished could actually cause your ears to ache. His attention to you never wavered, never hesitated. You walked away from Andrie Chekov with the underlying feeling that he had secretly discovered that there was something about you that was vitally important.

The Captain never again wondered where Pavel Chekov had gotten his unwavering self-confidence and rock solid self-image.

_Every human deserves just five minutes with Andrie Chekov_, Kirk thought, wondering absently what the man's his 'government job' for the Russian Federation was.

The lift doors opened then and he froze, startled to be confronted with both Dimitri and Chekov. The Navigator twisted sideways and the child stepped back quickly beside him.

_Military decorum_, Kirk thought ruefully, although now he suspected it had very little to do with Leonov, who seemed to ignore the child. _The man had mentioned Dimitri was a cabin boy in the navy: perhaps reinstating that particular custom was pushing the limit,_ the Captain considered.

The child was staring up at him sedately, innocently, patiently, with his wide brown eyes. It unnerved him. He didn't like to be looked at by the boy and he hoped, now that he knew Dimitri was from the same region as Chekov, that it was the similarities bothered him.

Having stood there for an inordinate amount of time, it suddenly occurred to Kirk that he had ought to say something. "Good afternoon, Dimitri. Are you enjoying your tour so far?" was what he managed to accumulate. He thought it turned out pleasant in the end.

"Yes, Sir: thank-you," was the boy's chipper and respectful response. "This spring I was able to tour the Excalibur while she was being fitted in dry-dock, so having the comparison of a ship in service has been very educational." He twisted his neck to look up at Chekov before turning back around to smile at the Captain. "I've encountered things here I never expected."

Well trained by his military service, the Chief Navigator didn't move, didn't even blink: but his face paled several shades lighter.

"Mr. Chekov was very kind to accompany me while I tour off-limits areas, such as the Bridge," Dimitri added.

"We'll both have to thank him, then," Kirk said with a pleasant smile. Truth be told, unless it had a security code, they all knew a Fleet Admiral's grandson could go anywhere he pleased. He had to thank Chekov in private. "I won't keep you, young man."

The Chief Navigator and the boy entered the lift as Kirk moved onto the Bridge.

"Oww!"

The Captain's step faltered and he snickered, grinning when the sound escaped the closing lift doors.

"Chekov!" The indignant protest from Uhura did little good, even though it brought her to her feet. The lift was gone and he couldn't possibly have heard her. "Captain, I don't think he should be hitting the child!"

Kirk sighed as he lowered himself into his command chair, trying to reign in his smile. "Oh, I don't know as I'd judge, Lieutenant. I haven't spent any time with the boy."

The Communications Officer moved away from her post to make better eye contact with her Commanding Officer. "Captain, that is the most adorable, charming little gentleman that it has ever been my good fortune to meet."

Casting a wicked glance at McCoy, who stood by his chair, Kirk turned sparkling hazel eyes at her. "Why Uhura, are you telling me Dimitri Ivanovich has turned his charisma on you and roped in his true love?"

"If he were a few years older," she answered without missing a heartbeat and planting her hand on her hip. Then added: "That boy is going to be fighting suitors off in his time."

There was a ripple of laughter that scattered over the bridge as Uhura retook her post. Kirk moved to turn back to the viewscreen, but muttered to McCoy as he did so. "Bones, I don't trust that kid."

"Jim, I have to say: everybody seems to love Dimitre," the Doctor responded, blue eyes shining. "And he does seem to get around."

The Captain scowled deeply. "If I remember," is what he said, "Everybody loved the orphans from Triacus as well." He shot a glare at his Chief Surgeon then. "Until they took over my ship!" he roared at his friend.

"I hardly think eight year old Dimitri is plotting to take over your constitution class star ship on his own," McCoy commented.

"He is showing more than a child-like interest in the ship, Captain," Spock informed him.

Kirk turned slowly, insides growing cold, and eyed his Science Officer. "What do you mean by that?"

Stepping down next to the command chair, Spock folded his hands behind his back. "From the human children I have observed aboard before, they all seemed to wish to know what all the controls do and what the readouts mean. Dimitri, on the other hand, has expressed no interest in this. His inquiries are more theoretical: how each system works and how they tie in together to make a functioning ship."

The Captain studied him a long moment. "Opinion, Spock?"

The Vulcan tilted his head and raised an eyebrow elegantly. "Dimitri Ivanovich has different interests than the human children who have previously visited the Enterprise."

Shifting a jaw muscle expertly, Kirk stared at the man. "Thank-you, Spock."

"Indeed."

"Spock?" the Captain continued quietly, with a furtive glance behind himself.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Why is Lieutenant Uhura on duty? Alpha shift has been off duty for some time now."

Both of Spock's eyebrows rose at this. "Lieutenant Soto was required in sickbay for the first three hours of his shift. Lieutenant Uhura volunteered for the extra time.

"My understanding, Captain, was that your recent order eliminated double shifts without your express, prior consent. It was not my understanding that this order eliminated the availability of overtime for either officers or crewmen."

"Oh, good God, don't do that!"

"Bones?"

"Jim," the Doctor said in a rush. "It is my express medical opinion that if you eliminate Chekov's ability to work on Spock's pet projects after duty, he'll drive the entire crew insane! You know there's just not enough to keep him busy on a starship."

"I'll take your input under advisement," Kirk said drolly, then turned back to Spock. "You're correct. The order was meant to have no affect on overtime, within reason."

The First Officer nodded, then observed: "I did submit the duty schedules for you to review, as per regulations, before they were posted, Sir."

_Like I've had time for routine paperwork with the Admiral leaning over my shoulder. Hell, _he thought with a sudden twinge,_ I haven't even found time for Chekov. _The Captain gave Spock a thin smile and wondered, not for the first time, if it were remotely possible for the Vulcan not to be able to read what his smoldering glare meant.

McCoy leaned over his shoulder knowingly. "Jim, if it worked, you know he'd deny it anyway."


	7. 7

Chekov hesitated long enough to brush his hand over the bulkhead, unlocking the door before striding into his cabin. He moved up to the desk and laid the clipboard he carried there: taking the time to mildly scold himself for leaving the lights on.

With a sigh, he rubbed his neck: twisting and stretching it in an effort to relieve the festering tension that burrowed there. Despite commendable and exhaustive work by the navigation team, both the ship's main and back-up navigation systems were found to be in perfect working order.

He knew the Chiefs of every section probably thought they had the department that was the most indispensable to the ship. He also knew the rest of them were wrong. After all, if Scotty had the engines running perfectly, if the Environmental Chief maintained perfect gravity and atmosphere, and if McCoy had every person in perfect health, Pavel Chekov knew none of it would matter if the navigation system was malfunctioning. A navigation error of just one degree meant the difference between a pleasant cruise and a spectacular collision.

What seemed to be a warped sight of the stars still haunted him. _Damn it_, he thought. _Maybe it's a malfunction in the viewscreen system itself._

Chekov closed his eyes then and engaged in the sheer luxury of a full body stretch. He reached his hands high toward the ceiling, interlacing his fingers and bending backwards. _What I really need,_ he thought, _is a scalding hot water shower and a coma-like nap._ He dropped his hands and reached likewise behind his waist.

He sighed when it occurred to him that the ship automatically turned off the lights in unoccupied areas.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded with irritation.

"Waiting for you to get off duty," came the child's self-satisfied reply.

Opening his eyes, he dropped his arms and moved up to the room divider, tentatively peering around into the bedroom.

The boy was lying propped against pillows on the bed, his knees bent up. The book that had recently eased Chekov's mind was resting on his upturned thighs. He looked up and met the Navigator's gaze cheerfully.

"_Privyet,"_ he remarked pleasantly.

"Hello," the man purposely responded in English. "I wasn't expecting you to show up here."

"Is that so?" Dimitri asked in feigned amazement, imitating Chekov's accent perfectly--as though he'd been practicing. His wide brown eyes rolled with great melodrama over the contents of the bedroom. When they shifted back to rest on Chekov, their dark depths sparkled devilishly. "You have quite an artistic collection of picture hooks on your walls. I must say, it's very attractive."

"Yes, well, I was looking for something original," the Navigator answered quickly. He had admittedly taken the preemptive strike of removing all photos and personal items normally scattered about his cabin. Shoving his arms across his chest, he moved around the divider and leaned his hip against it.

"You even emptied your safe," the child commented with a note of respect. "Despite what you said, you're clever enough so that I couldn't find where you hid any of it."

The child's search for his personal possessions brushed by his mind, barely touching conscious thought. He had obviously prepared for the possibility and had thought nothing the child could do would surprise him, but he was wrong. Chekov stood up straight instantly. "Safe? How did you get into my safe?" he demanded. How the child could have managed this particular feat alarmed him. "How did you get into my safe?" he asked again.

Dimitri flattened his legs on the bed and fixed the older man with a ludicrous stare. "The same way I got into your cabin and checked your duty schedule in the computer. I have your security codes," the boy reminded him. "Or didn't that occur to you? You're an officer, there are very few things I can't do on this ship."

"You can't use my security codes!" the Navigator gasped in horror, flinging out his arms as though the embarrassing gesture demonstrated the point.

Long, curled, lashes blinked several times over the boy's large brown eyes. "Apparently, I can."

_Good God_, Chekov thought with horror: a sudden, now familiar, paralyzing cold gripping him. It confounded him that no matter what he did, the child still managed to be several steps ahead. He stood away from the divider, heart racing as he swallowed with difficulty.

"You can't do that," he asserted, the quiet words coming from low in his throat. "There are reasons for the security codes."

Chekov's book discarded, the boy pulled his knees up against his chest again and wrapped his arms tightly about his legs. In the dark depthless eyes an omnipotence grew and turned utterly, unapologetically malevolent. The child smiled wantonly then and the brilliance of the wild grin raced into his demonic eyes.

"Yes, I can use your security codes," he told Chekov triumphantly, "And there's nothing you can do to stop me."

The Navigator stilled then, straightening with ramrod stiffness. Neither the malevolence, nor the artful way the boy revealed it were a surprise to him. He had just never actually faced it before. The child allowed him to see it freely now in a confident declaration of his unqualified victory.

Dimitri frightened him at a basic level, Chekov realized as he stood there silently staring at the child. His stealthy dark eyes now betrayed his almost instinctive appraisal of people he met, and he had a quickly calculating mind that--even at eight--allowed him to use that information for his own purposes. With charisma, charm and puppy dog eyes, Dimitri had firm control of the world around him. Even so, the boy had made a fatal error, and he of all people should have known it. No one told Pavel Chekov that he couldn't do something. No one.

"Stay right there," the Navigator ordered. "Don't' move."

"You're not afraid to take chances, are you?" the boy taunted lightly with amusement as Chekov disappeared into the bathroom.

The Chief Navigator knew he wasn't taking a chance. Russian children were spoiled, but they weren't brats. They obeyed. When he returned, the boy had scooted to the end of the bed and hung his feet over the edge.

"Do you need to see the Doctor?" the boy asked lightly, swinging his feet easily. "You were forever in that bathroom."

Chekov paused at the end of the bed. "I wasn't using the bathroom," he intoned, clasping his hands behind his back. "I was next door using Sulu's intercom."

The feet stopped swinging. Dimitri made no comment, but the Chief Navigator knew the boy instantly understood he'd miscalculated dramatically somehow. Chekov answered the obvious question which the boy failed to ask.

"We're not going to worry about security codes or what you're getting yourself into," he disclosed in an ominous whisper, his own eyes dark now. "Because from now on I'm always going to be with you--by your side--until you leave this ship."

Chekov saw the child's back stiffen and the boy sat there, regarding the man hovering in front of him thoughtfully. "You have to report for your duty shifts," he finally observed carefully.

The Navigator smiled wickedly: it was not a kind smile and it's light didn't reach his eyes. The boy bent a knee up and dug his foot into the bed when he saw a familiar malevolence in the man's gaze.

"Ah, but you ARE my duty shifts, Dimitri," Chekov explained, his grin becoming wild. "Assigning a command officer to babysitting detail would be unacceptable, but when I contacted Mr. Spock to arrange time off to chaperone you, the Captain converted my volunteering to a permanent duty assignment." He laughed wickedly in sheer enjoyment and triumph. "I'm even getting extra pay because it'll require more time than normal duty shifts."

The boy quietly grasped his up-turned leg with both hands, averting his eyes. "The Captain must be glad that someone's going to be keeping me out of his way," he murmured dejectedly.

Chekov nodded, the wildly crooked grin shining in his eyes. "I swear I made the man weep!" he gushed, but then hesitated suddenly. The tone in the child's words edged to the very base of his brain stem. Smile fading, the Navigator turned his gaze down to purposefully catch the deeply somber brown eyes of the child. It was not defeat he saw in their molten depths.

"Damn it all to hell!" the man exploded. "I can't believe I walked right into that! With my eyes wide open, no less! I can't believe I fell for it!" he repeated in exasperation.

"Neither can I," Dimitri laughed wickedly, eyes shining as his feet swung happily again. "I honestly didn't think it had any chance of working on you, of all people."

The Chief Navigator sat down on the end of the bed next to Dimitri, dumbfounded. Somehow he had gone from refusing to speak to the child to being his constant companion. He knew it wasn't something he'd planned.

"Am I going to sleep here, too?" the boy asked absently.

Chekov shook his head without looking at the child. "I believe the Captain intended for me to keep you busy while…" he stopped the effort to talk, knowing why he asked, and sighed. "You have a double cabin with your grandfather, he'll expect you to be there."

"He didn't notice I wasn't there last night," Dimitri observed absently.

Chekov forced himself to look over at the child then. His face had become gray, all color and texture of human skin having disappeared under a sheen of granite. With a rock-hard jaw and balled fists, and body so stiff it trembled, the illusion the child had become statuary was complete.

The man wondered briefly what corner the child had curled up in to pass his first night on the Enterprise.

"He only notices me when he wants something from me, Pavel."

Chekov's eyes remained fixed on the child. It wasn't something he could debate. "It's what's right," he finally replied, not liking the sound of the words he knew were required. "You have been taught that you have responsibilities to others you cannot avoid just because they're unpleasant."

"Of course. I know that," the boy spat out with irritation at the implication that he might have failed his upbringing. "I do what is expected of me: I even do what my Grandfather expects of me," he spat out self-righteously, clearly indignant at being accused of doing otherwise. "But he doesn't care where I sleep."

Dimitri lapsed into tense silence then. "My Grandfather doesn't love me," he declared fiercely after a moment. "To him I'm just a toy he can play with when it's useful. Look at the stupid clothes he dresses me up in!" he charged darkly, slapping his thigh in illustration.

Scrutinizing the boy in thought, Chekov shrugged. Dimitri was dressed in a Navy uniform: white cotton trimmed with a blue collar and cuffs, a Donald Duck hat on his head. White silk stockings and low black leather boots completed the outfit. "You are in the Navy," he commented.

The boy scowled and threw the hat like a Frisbee. "This outfit makes strange women grab me violently in ways that violate my person. I'm sure I already have intimate knowledge of more women on this ship than you do!" he announced haughtily. "Their uniforms leave little to the imagination when your face is being buried in them."

"The sailor suit does accentuate the 'cute' factor," Chekov agreed soberly, while flatly considering the poor boy was just too young to appreciate the attention it garnered. "But what about that peasant outfit yesterday?"

"Yes," Dimitri agreed eagerly. "Serfs always went around dressed in silk shirts: that's why none of them could afford shoes!"

"Historical accuracy is not always…"

"There's a Cossack uniform in my luggage," the child growled at him knowingly.

Chekov let out a deep sigh of resignation, nodding. "He does tend to treat you…"

"Like a wind-up doll," the child repeated fiercely. "How do I keep letting myself be fooled into thinking he wants anything else from me? When I was told about dining at the Captain's table today I actually let myself think…" Dimitri stopped, dark eyes smoldering. "He treats me like I'm a trained bear in the Moscow Circus!" he concluded sullenly.

"I heard," Chekov growled low in his throat, accent thick. "The entire ship has heard about your brilliant performance."

"It wasn't my idea," Dimitri reminded him. He straightened his back angrily. "You know I couldn't say no to my grandfather's demands."

The Navigator glanced over at the boy sharply, eyes narrowing as he was struck by Dimitri's menacing countenance. No matter what the social constraints, people found ways to adapt the world to fit their needs--especially willful ones. His heart sank heavily as he remembered that there was more than one way to exact revenge. "What did you sing?" he demanded.

The boy twisted his fingers into the fabric of is pants, staring at them, and his mumbled response was unintelligible.

"What did you sing?" Chekov persisted.

"'Tomorrow', okay?" he spat out.

Chekov gasped in horror. "From 'Annie'?"

"Dedushka deserved it," Dimitri retorted with great assuredness. "He's lucky I didn't sing a thirty-seven verse sea shanty."

"Well, now," the Navigator drawled elaborately, rolling his own wide chocolate brown eyes. "That would have brought up the question of how you know some thirty of those verses."

"Sailors don't spend their free time talking about much else but women. Just because I'm not capable of the activities yet doesn't mean I don't know about them," the boy said haughtily.

"Bully for you," Chekov commented drolly.

He could see the still festering frustration in the sallow color of Dimitri's skin.

"Why doesn't Dedushka love me?" he asked quietly. "I can make anyone like me," he reported fiercely, proudly.

"You haven't met any Klingons yet," Chekov observed adroitly.

"He's my grandfather," the child retorted. "He's supposed to love me." Pain rushed in torrents through the deep, dark depths of the child's wide, soulful eyes: but it was Chekov who blinked back the tears. The Navigator swallowed with difficulty as he gently touched his fingers to the boy's cheek.

"Love doesn't work that way, Dimitri," he said softly. "And you might try to remember everything isn't about you. Give him time," he advised, brushing his whole hand along the boy's cheek before dropping it.

Such words of recrimination from a child had no place in their culture, such childhood feelings had no acceptable outlet. It was not that Russian children felt any different about certain adults than other human children the world over. They were simply taught to show respect regarding to their elders no matter how they felt, no matter to whom they spoke. Only a remarkable twist in the turning of the universe had brought Dimitri to this unheard of place. Here existed a place where it was safe to spew out all the words that could not be said. Here at last was the singular man in all of existence to whom he could admit the thoughts and feelings consuming him.

Chekov mulled it over while the boy continued talking, his words flowing past without registering. It didn't matter--he knew what Dimitri was saying. He had heard the words a thousand times over in his own mind. Still, he could hear the undercurrent of relief flowing in the passion of the boy's voice as the words came gushing out: and he understood it with his whole heart. When the child finally exhausted himself, they sat in silence with both pair of eyes warm liquid brown whirlpools.

"Have you told your father how being with your grandfather makes you feel?" he finally asked.

Dimitri glanced at him sharply in alarm, eyes widening. "No!" he blurted out breathlessly. "You know I can't do that!"

Nodding silently, the Navigator sighed after a moment. "What do you tell your father about your trips with your grandfather when you return home?"

"Just the new things I saw and did," the boy responded in a subdued tone.

Eyes still fixed forward at a distant point, Chekov pulled in a corner of his lip and chewed on it thoughtfully. He shrugged then. "I suppose he doesn't suspect you're holding any information back from him."

The child's fingers kneaded their way into the top of his pants and he stared down at them sullenly. Guilt and shame washed over his face, consuming his features. Of course Dimitri's father could see in the boy's eyes that there was something the child was not telling him. Any traditional Russian could have seen such a thing, but the boy and his father were extremely close.

"You're close to your father," Chekov observed aloud. "I would wonder what he might think you feel you have to hide from him?"

This brought the child's head up quickly and he eyed the Navigator suspiciously with dangerously dark eyes.

"What could he think?" Chekov shrugged again. "Just that you agree with what your grandfather is saying about him."

With a sharp intake of breath, the child's brown eyes grew wide. "I would NEVER...! I don't let him talk about Papa...or anyone!"

But indeed, what else could the man be imagining the previously open child was hiding from him? What else could be causing the profound sadness to creep across his father's dark eyes? He had known, as parents do, that his son would drift away. But to begin losing the child's faith in him so early...

"I can't tell him," the child maintained desperately. "He's the one that brought me to Dedushka to get the educational help I need to join the Fleet."

"Yes, I suppose you can't get help from your grandfather without spending torturous weeks with him, or without going on these trips."

Dimitri blinked quickly several times, pulling the corner of his lower lip between his teeth to chew on it. He pushed his fingers deep into the folds of fabric on his thighs and sat in silence then: his averted eyes staring at some distant point on the floor.

Chekov knew exactly the raging frustration the child was battling and felt somewhat ashamed that he had caused it. He was startled, in fact, at how easy it had been to bring the child to this point: how second nature twisting words into useful tools was.

As a child Chekov remembered how many times he, himself, had wanted to jump up and down: screaming a demand to be beaten or ordered and pushed about like some animal. It was not the way of his people, however, and could never be the way of his father. Controlled in early life with suffocating rigidity, Andrie Chekov found it repulsive to guide with anything more than thought-provoking questions and observations.

At twenty-two, it could still frustrate Chekov to tears when he just wanted a simple opinion from the older man.

"Do you think your father would knowingly put you in the hands of anyone who makes you feel like your grandfather does? If he knew, he would stop it. The Admiral can still set up classes for you even if you're not visiting with him."

Brow furrowing, Dimitri chewed tentatively on the edge of his lip a moment, which made him look both pitiful and vulnerable. Wide, depthless eyes stared at his balled hands. "I want a ship of my own," he intoned softly without looking up.

The Navigator almost burst out laughing. He knew the child could have recited with clear reasoning that this selfish desire was not an acceptable reason to let himself continue to grow distant from his father, and nothing excused torturing the man with suspicions of the sinister nature of Leonov's words.

"You tell your grandfather that you don't want to do any more 'bonding' and he'll be so racked with guilt at the relief he feels, he'll give you anything you want," Chekov said, blunt for the first time. "Especially if you happen to remind him of the five years he has to make up for."

Long eyelashes fluttered and the boy gazed up at him through their curls. A devilish smile spread over his face then, wicked in its utterly pleased happiness. He giggled.

"See," Chekov commented self-righteously, "Now maybe you'll think twice about who you choose to torture."

The Navigator's statement caused the smile to fade instantly off the child's face. Guilt traced visibly over his features and his dark eyes fell to his hands again. He began fidgeting with his pants again, twisting his fingers into the white cloth. "I was angry at Dedushka," Dimitri admitted. "I wanted to make him pay."

Chekov heard the undercurrent of shame in the child's tone, which did not surprise him in the least. The boy was old enough to know another being shouldn't be treated with such patent disrespect, even if they didn't realize the affront. The Navigator's eyes shifted over to the boy's hands and watched as the fingers carefully kneaded the fabric beneath them. He went cold again as he noted Dimitri's gray pallor, brilliant eyes, stiff jaw, tight lips and quick breathing. The largely unseen fingers had knotted the fabric of his pants.

"What piano piece did you choose?" he asked quickly, but he knew without any doubt. "Mozart?" he offered with little hope.

"I hate Mozart," the child responded and dropped backward on the bed. He shoved his hands behind his head. "He was a brat."

"A sonata? A concerto?" the Navigator prompted.

"A piece from a symphony," was the distant answer as Dimitri stared at the ceiling.

"The Shostakovich Seventh?" Chekov demanded knowingly then: the raging, pounding music he referred to filling his chest and mind even as he suggested it.

"Yes, perhaps the Nazi's were defeated again."

"Show me your hands!"

Uncharacteristically, the boy simply lay there silently, staring at the ceiling.

"Show me your hands!" Chekov ordered again impatiently, thrusting out his own, palm up.

The child sighed heavily and sat up, showing no effort to ward off his eventual defeat in the issue. He laid his fingers on top of the Navigator's hand resolutely.

"All the angels and saints!" the man gasped in horror. "The good Lord put nails on human hands for a reason, Dimitri!"

"You can't play the piano with nails," the boy reminded him. "Or work a sailing ship."

"You need to leave at least enough nail to protect your nail bed," Chekov insisted, snarling as he stroked the blood-caked fingers he held. "Stop pulling them off, you've got them down past the quick. Look at your calluses," he continued. "Your hands don't even have human skin on them any more."

"Look at your hands," the boy retorted indignantly. "My mother's aren't even that soft. What do you do all day?"

"I sit on my arse and stare at the stars," the Navigator answered haughtily. "And I'm happy to do so.

"You'd be surprised how little friction the navigation panels offer. You'll get an infection," he chided.

"I'll just go in the bathroom and wash them," Dimitri said heavily, jerking his hands away from the older man. "They'll be fine."

"There are already scabs forming on your fingertips. Left like this your hands won't be useful for weeks. I'll bring you to see Dr. McCoy and he'll take care of it."

The child growled low in his throat. "I don't need to see any Doctor." His words were accompanied by an incongruous sound.

Chekov's eyes narrowed and he studied Dimitri's still and respectful face, his steady and averted wide eyes. The Navigator sighed thoughtfully and brushed his already perfect hair into place with a hand. "Did you eat lunch with the Captain and your grandfather?"

Dimitri pulled his lower lip in between his teeth again. "They had synthetic food," he answered. "I don't like synthetic food. I'd rather eat my mother's cooking."

"Believe me, you wouldn't," Chekov muttered to himself. "Have you eaten anything since you came aboard?" he added louder. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Do they have any real food on board?" Dimitri questioned suddenly, without offering an answer.

"They serve real food for every meal," Chekov replied. "And there's always snacks available: you just have to go to where they serve it. Or send your Yeoman to get it for you," he said, flashing a charming, crooked smile. "If you happen to be an officer. It's the replicators that only have synthetic food, but they are everywhere.

"Tell you what," he continued. "I'll have my Yeoman bring some of your favorite food to my office and we'll stop at sickbay on the way there."

The boy smirked conspiratorially as the Navigator got up from the bed. "And will you find me some normal clothes?" he asked.

Rolling his eyes with a melodramatic sigh, Chekov nodded. "Normal clothes."

The boy scampered off the bed and went to put his rough hand into Chekov's, but the man pulled it away.

"Your beskozyrka," he reminded him, pointing at the discarded hat.

Dimitri retrieved it with a growl and reseated it on his head. "You know it's the hat that makes women hug the life out of me. Perhaps you should wear one."

"Not on your life."

Chekov strolled through the ship's corridors: the boy's small, yet long, elegant and blood-caked, fingers in his. He found himself trying to become lost in the solitary world of his own thoughts: trying not to be drawn into child controlled territory. It didn't work. It never worked.

Immersed completely in his own world, Dimitri was happily tapping patterns on the deck with his black leather shoes as they walked. Sometimes drifting behind the Navigator, sometimes pulling ahead: he even spun in glee, using the man's hand as a pivot. The boy's voice filled the air in absent-minded song as he danced along.

"_In Plimouth town there lived a maid:_

_Bless you, young women._

_In Plimouth town there lived a maid:_

_Now mind what I do say._

_In Plimouth town there lived a maid,_

_And she was a mistress of the trade:_

_I'll go no more a rovin' with you fair maid._

"_I took this fair maid for a walk…"_

"Don't worry," Dimitri interrupted his singing. "I'm sure we'll get to Sickbay before I get to the interesting verses."

"I'm greatly reassured," Chekov answered drolly.

"Am I embarrassing you?"

"Why should I be embarrassed? You're the one making a fool out of yourself."

"You sound like my father," the boy observed.

"I'm not surprised," the man commented. "Don't dance on the bulkheads," he said suddenly as the boy tapped a rhythm on the wall. "You're marking them."

Dimitri's singing and dancing continued uninterrupted on the deck as they moved along. A thought drifted across his mind and a sinking feeling overtook Chekov the closer they got to the lift. Each tap of the boy's shoes caught at his chest like a knife blade. When the lift doors opened in front of them, the Navigator turned and stared at the corridor that stretched behind them.

The bulkheads and the decks on a starship were made of the same material. Stretching the length of the corridor was a long path of black streaks marking the path they had walked. "Your behavior caused that," he announced to the child as he pointed to the offending trail.

The boy sulked unhappily, knowingly. "Don't starships have maintenance staff?"

"They didn't make that mess. Do you think they have no other work to do? Who should be responsible for cleaning up after you?"

"I am responsible for the consequences of my own behavior," the boy recited, sighing heavily as he stepped into the lift with the Navigator. "I'll clean it. Unless maintenance gets to it before me," he quipped hopefully.

"Don't worry. I'll make sure they don't."

Scowling more deeply, Dimitri shook his head. "You're so…so…Russian."

Chekov grinned. "You have no idea."


	8. 8

Kirk watched the information scroll by on the computer screen again with a sense of satisfaction. Perhaps the glorious stories of a starship captain's exploits in deep space brought crowds to their feet in rousing cheers, but he doubted anyone understood the feeling of complete victory a commander felt when he freed himself of the mundane drudgery that also made up his life.

Switching off the computer, he stood and took a moment to knock the feeling back into his feet.

"Come," he said absently as the door chimed. The sense of satisfaction sank away when the Admiral, not one of his own officers, came through the door.

"Admiral Leonov," he acknowledged, straightening.

"Good afternoon, Captain," the man smiled pleasantly. "I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."

Kirk didn't suspect for a moment that he cared one way or the other. "No," he answered honestly. "I was just finishing up, Sir."

"I was hoping to kill two birds with one stone," the Admiral said. "I thought I should meet the young man who was kind enough to volunteer to spend time with my grandson, and I haven't had an opportunity to tour navigation yet."

"That can be easily arranged," the Captain replied, but Leonov cut off anything further he intended to say.

"Did you say your Chief Navigator was an Ensign? Haven't you any Lieutenants in Navigation? How old is he?"

"Twenty-two," Kirk said stiffly, straightening his back as he saw the Admiral blink several times in surprise. The issue had been debated with people that actually mattered and the Captain was in no mood to rehash it now with Leonov. "He earned it," was his only clarification to the man.

It was one day in his career Kirk would have happily lost the memory of. Chekov had stayed with the former Chief Navigator: talking and praying with the former atheist as he lay dying, comforting the man who had spent his days trying to make the young Russian's life a living hell, holding onto a body that made seasoned medical personnel wretch when they finally arrived. While he had knelt with the Chief, the young man had used the star charts etched into his brain to navigate the ship through the storm and into safety—a necessity since the ship's entire navigation system had gone dead from damage.

"He's skilled: and he has character," Kirk added to the senior officer.

"Well," the man replied easily, " Then I look forward to meeting him. I realize he's not in navigation currently since he's working with my grandson. Will it be difficult to find him, do you think?"

A wry smile tugged at the Captain's lips, his hazel eyes sparkling. "Oh, I imagine not," he said. Just then a peal of laughter from a child drifted into the Captain's office.

The Admiral's forehead creased with confused lines.

Kirk indicated the door to the man's left. "The Chief Navigator's office is next to the Captain's. I believe they've been in there for some time now. I needed to talk to Chekov anyway," he continued as he moved out from behind his desk. "Perhaps you can touch base with your grandson while I meet briefly with the Ensign."

He ignored how taken aback the man looked at the proposal, and merely prompted him through the door. The Admiral hesitated once through and Kirk smiled knowingly. "Chart room," he explained, not having felt the need to detail the ship's blueprints entirely. He indicated a door directly across from the one they had just come through and Leonov continued on through the second door as directed.

Kirk froze as he entered Chekov's office, his heart stopping. Ice cold, hard hazel eyes glared at the Ensign as he quickly slipped a bottle off his desk and into his lap behind the child who sat there.

"Admiral," the Captain bit out without any attempt to control the anger in his voice. "This will be dealt with, I assure you."

The Senior Officer had paled to the shade of new paper—whiter than any ghost, whiter than Kirk thought any human being could be. He stood mouthing words without success, and then finally glanced back and forth from the Captain to the Ensign. "What?" he asked, pointing to Chekov. "The beer? Don't do anything about that, Captain. Dimitri's been drinking vodka since he could hold his own baby bottle. He could probably drink everyone on the ship under the table."

As could Chekov, thought Kirk ruefully. But that didn't make it right.

"You can't have pizza without beer," the child quipped helpfully.

True, thought the Captain, but despite the evidence that was what they had been eating, he was still was none too happy to have seen the beer in the child's hands.

Chekov at this point was obviously facing his own dilemma. With two senior officers having just entered the room, he was expected to stand: only he had a cold bottle of beer crushed between his legs and a child weighing them down. He decided to replace the poorly concealed bottle on the desk and stood quickly, slipping his hand around Dimitri's waist so the boy hung suspended in mid-air, his back crushed against the Navigator's chest.

The boy giggled at his dangling position.

"Is this your Chief Navigator?" the Admiral asked hoarsely.

"Yes," Kirk began replying, but a glance told him that Leonov was still white. Eyes riveted to Chekov, the Fleet Admiral was also still mouthing many words that never found sound.

"Dimitri," he growled suddenly in a burst of sound. "Get over here!"

Leonov shot a glance over at Kirk. "Captain, this man…this man…" He stopped, taking a forceful breath. His color started coming back. "Dimitri," he asked. "What's your family name? What's your name, Dimitri!"

Kirk straightened, his mouth opening slightly in curiosity. "Admiral," he asked. "You don't know your grandson's name?"

The man shook his head repeatedly. "We don't use surnames all the time in Russia: and in the Historic Districts...almost never. Dimitri, come over here!"

While Chekov had lowered the boy to the floor, his hands lingered protectively on the child's chest. Dimitri made no effort to either move or respond to his grandfather.

"Dimitri!"

"I don't want to!" the boy suddenly spat back.

Kirk's head snapped around, staring at the boy even as he saw the Admiral's mouth drop open. In Chekov's time on the ship the Captain had learned that traditional Russian children were simply never disrespectful or disobedient—and no traditional Russian was ever rude. Dimitri Ivanovich had just damned himself to hell: both on Earth and in the afterlife.

The Admiral closed his mouth carefully and shifted his eyes to Kirk. "Captain," he intoned apologetically. "Dimitri's family name is obviously Chekov. This man looks exactly like his father."

"No, I don't," Chekov blurted out, more disrespectful than Kirk had ever heard him: but he looked embarrassed by his outburst immediately.

"Not now," the Admiral growled. "The only reason he grew the beard was to look older. You look like he did without the beard. He must be an uncle," the man said to the Captain.

Leonov turned his attention back to the child then. "Dimitri, come over here now. I'm responsible for you and you know your parents don't associate with the Chekovs: they'll skin me alive if they find out I put you in their hands."

"My parents don't associate with the Leonovs either," the child said darkly. "And yet, I'm here with you."

The Admiral straightened at that and simply stared at the boy, nonplused.

"I am not Dimitri's uncle," Chekov said then, pulling the child tighter against his legs. "Viktor Chekov is thirty four.

"Captain," he continued, shifting wide, soulful eyes to his commander. Kirk recognized lingering shame in their dark depths. "I told you I had something important to tell you."

Jim Kirk stumbled forward then, scrambling to regain his footing in the most undignified fashion after having been ploughed into by his Chief Surgeon's explosive entrance from the chart room. At least he didn't fall face-first into the Admiral. He glowered at McCoy anyway.

"Good," the Doctor declared, his steel blue eyes indignant. "You're both here. You're all here." Striding toward Chekov, he waved a computer tape at him across the desk: thrusting it both at the boy and the Navigator.

"Ensign," he demanded. "Did you know about this?"

"Of course I knew," Chekov answered stiffly. "I'm not an idiot."

"Did you think the medical computers wouldn't pick it up?"

"As a matter of fact, that consideration had not occurred to me," he replied, sounding more like Spock than was comfortable.

"Look," Dimitri said suddenly, flashing a brilliant smile and thrusting up his hands--fingers splayed--toward Kirk. "Look, Captain, the Doctor fixed my hands. They weren't even this soft when I was born!"

Eyes narrowing slightly, Kirk took a tentative step toward the child. Was it all rural Russians, or just all Chekovs, he wondered? The boy had just clearly and deliberately tried to break the tension and divert their attention away from what had caused it. Chekov's bad jokes were more effective, the Captain decided.

"Dr. McCoy is quite skilled," he agreed, refusing to acknowledge what the boy had attempted. He saw in Dimitri's brown eyes however that the boy knew the Captain wasn't ignorant of his ineffective ploy.

Spock's entrance into the office from the main corridor shouldn't have surprised him at this point, but it did nonetheless. Kirk's eyes swept over the number of inhabitants in the small room. "We'll adjourn to the briefing room down the corridor, gentlemen."

Sweeping out of the room first, the Captain held back in the corridor while the Chief Navigator's office emptied of it's other inhabitants. He rubbed the back of his neck thoroughly. He didn't know what all these various people wanted with him, but intuition told him his life was about to become seriously more complicated.

"Bones," he said when the Doctor took up a place settled into a place beside him. "I've got a headache: a massive headache."

"Just wait," his friend commented dryly. "It only promises to get worse."

Chekov came out of the office last, his hand resting gently on the boy's back as he led him along. The Navigator immediately summoned a passing Yeoman. "Yeoman," he instructed. "Please escort Dimitri, here, to my cabin. Locate Lieutenant Sulu and ask him to stay with the boy until I get back: wait until he arrives."

"Yes, Sir."

Since the Ensign had so far shown a knack for handling the child, Kirk gave no thought to protesting. Not so the child.

"But I want…"

A glance from the Navigator silenced Dimitri and caused him to lower his eyes.

"Go take a nap: you've got decks to clean later."

"Come along," the Yeoman was coaxing cheerfully. "I was at lunch today when you were performing. You're a very talented young man."

"Thank-you," the child replied happily. Kirk watched as he turned melted chocolate brown eyes up at the woman and smiled charmingly.

"What an adorable little sailor suit," she continued as she led him down the corridor. "You're just cute as a button: I could hug the stuffing out of you."

"Thank-you," he responded cheerfully again. As they approached the end of the corridor, however, the Captain saw as Dimitri twisted his head around to look back at Chekov. His eyes were not warm, they were not brown. The Ensign was fixed with a dark, demonic and menacing glare that was clearly a threat as the child disappeared around the corner.

It startled Kirk with its intensity.

"That boy is dangerous," the Captain intoned with an assurance he felt down to the soles of his feet.

McCoy eyed him. "It's probably just your headache."

"An eight year old with that much charm and charisma who's already an expert at using them? Bones, I guarantee you: Dimitri is another Hitler in the making."

"I don't know," a subdued McCoy observed, eyeing Chekov as they followed him and the others down the corridor. "I wouldn't go about designating Dimitri as Hitler's heir just yet, Jim." He gestured thoughtfully as he continued. "The boy's eight: did it ever occur to you that he's just been raised to be polite, respectful and well-mannered?"

"I've seen that boy's eyes," the Captain argued in low growl as they approached the briefing room. "That's not respect hidden under the friendly little child we're seeing. That's a demon," he pronounced.

"Maybe respect is the wrong word," the Doctor agreed a little too quickly. "All humans have to learn to use discretion in revealing their thoughts and feelings to others. When children show discretion, we call it respect: when adults use the skill, it's called diplomacy. Captain, can you honestly tell me you haven't hidden any of your thoughts or feelings from Admiral Leonov since he arrived? We do it all the time, Jim," he said in gentle reminder. "I don't see how you can rightly blame Dimitri just for being proficient in the art early."

Kirk froze in his tracks and turned cold, hard hazel eyes on his friend at the briefing room's closed door. It was indecent for any man to be right so often. "Bones," he finally bit out, "When I want your opinion...I'll ask for it."


	9. 9

The Captain strode into the briefing room then and took his seat at the head of the table. McCoy settled next to Spock, who already waited to Kirk's right. Directly opposite the Enterprise officers sat Admiral Leonov.

As Kirk came to rest in his chair, his eyes fell on Chekov seated rigidly at the opposite end of the table. The Ensign's hands rested on the table, his eyes frozen on the interlaced fingers. His lowered gaze and his position far removed from the group of senior officers conveyed the impression that his presence was an intrusion amongst them.

Kirk thought his Chief Navigator looked much younger than he actually was--and even younger than his wholesome good looks could make him appear when he wanted them to. THAT was it, the Captain realized with sudden clarity: that was what unnerved him about Dimitri. There were times that Kirk had glimpsed in the child's dark eyes a maturity and wisdom that reached far beyond his years. In Chekov's eyes, caught when the Captain accidentally startled upon their usually hidden depths, James Kirk had also seen that very same too expansive wisdom and maturity. Both of these Russians seemed to be hiding that they were somehow secretly older than they allowed others to know about. Was that a product of their shared peasant upbringing? he wondered.

"Captain," the Admiral began immediately. "I most certainly don't want to give the impression that I have anything against this young officer. Given the family difficulties, however, you must understand that I can't let him baby-sit my grandson any longer. Frankly, I don't care, but his parents would have my hide."

Kirk saw Chekov glance up sharply at the Admiral, then forcefully pull his eyes back down to his hands almost immediately. The Captain folded his own hands on the table and leaned forward.

"Mr. Chekov," he intoned curiously without responding to the Admiral. "We seem to have a number of issues to bring to the table here." Continuing with a gesture at those gathered, he nodded to the Ensign. "You came to me first with an issue you wished to discuss, so why don't we start with you first?"

Wide brown eyes rose to his Captain and he blinked only one, significant, time.

In the young man's gaze shone the understanding that Kirk had not began with Chekov for the logical reason he expressed, but to establish clearly from the outset the Ensign's equal place among the more senior officers at the meeting. The Captain withheld a smirk at how thin his ruse had been, but he knew his hazel eyes sparkled by the way the Navigator glanced away. Had it taken Dimitri to make him realize just how much obvious information he had been missing in Chekov's soulful gaze?

"Captain," the young man replied. "When I met Dimitri, I contacted you to tell you…" Stopping, he cleared his throat and pulled his hands into his lap. "I felt it was important that you have certain information…" Chekov hesitated again and swallowed hard. He glanced away, then down at his hands while trying to gather his words.

Kirk eyed him studiously. The young Navigator may still be impulsive, but no one would allow that his self-assured cockiness ever found the articulate man wanting for words in speaking even to a superior officer.

"Jim," the Doctor interrupted, rescuing the Ensign by turning attention away from him. "Dimitri stopped by sickbay earlier for some simple first aid. I took some calluses off his hands while he was there as well."

"I know," Kirk smirked wryly. "He told me."

"Well, as you know," McCoy continued in a more pleasant, professional tone to the Captain. "A starship has to be self-contained. Whenever anyone is treated in sickbay the equipment automatically takes a wide assortment of readings, stores the data and makes comparisons. That way if anyone ever needs stored biological samples, stored synthetics or even donations: we instantly know what's available--and from who."

The Captain glanced quickly from the Admiral to McCoy. "Bones, are you saying Dimitri is sick?"

"No!" he blurted in alarm. "The boy is in perfect health."

Kirk studied him a moment before asking the next obvious question. "He's a donor match for someone else who is ill?"

"No," the Doctor shook his head tersely in irritation. "Jim…" he stopped then, straightening and turning to look at Chekov. Their gaze remained locked for a long moment. When he turned his attention back to the Captain, there was a subtle glimmer in his blue eyes. He tapped the fingers of his right hand in rhythm on the table as he answered Kirk.

"Yes, Jim, I suppose Dimitri would be a donor if Chekov here needed one. According to my instruments, Dimitri Ivanovich and Pavel Chekov have the exact same DNA."

Kirk's eyes shot open wide. "You're his father!"

"Captain!" Chekov gasped in indignant horror. "I would have been twelve!"

The Captain couldn't help but grin. "I would never underestimate the prowess of any of my officers, Mr. Chekov."

The Navigator squirmed uncomfortably with a decidedly pink flush to his cheeks.

"Captain," Spock interrupted. "Human DNA is a double helix model--one strand coming from each parent. Were our Chief Navigator Dimitri's father, at best only half his DNA would match Mr. Chekov's."

"Yes, I knew that," Kirk commented in thought, although admittedly it had not occurred to him at the moment. "In human beings the only way there would be an exact match of DNA would be…" he stilled, bringing hazel eyes to study the Doctor. "Bones," he asked. "Dimitri is a clone of Chekov?"

"He is not!" the Admiral roared.

Fine, the Captain thought. When he decides to speak up, it's completely inappropriate and a hindrance to the topic.

"I don't know what is going on here with you people, but I won't allow…"

"Jim," the Doctor answered without waiting for someone to acknowledge that the Admiral had spoken. "When an entire organism is cloned, there is an eventual deterioration of the genetic code which scientists have still been unable to resolve. That's why it continues to be illegal to clone a sentient being.

"The genetic deterioration would have resulted in differences in the DNA by the time Dimitri was eight. Actually," he corrected himself soberly after a moment, his voice dropping. "He wouldn't be eight: clones die younger than that."

"Indeed," Spock agreed. "No clone known has ever lived longer than five years: and they spend most of their lives ill."

Kirk shook his head vaguely: it didn't make sense. "If they're not cloned, how is it possible for two individuals to have the same DNA? An identical twin: one embryo frozen...fourteen years?" he asked after quickly doing the math.

The ship's First Officer slowly raised an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest. "This presents a logical explanation for the irregularities recently discovered in Admiral Leonov's ship."

"Something's wrong with my ship?" Leonov asked quickly, green eyes intense.

"No," Spock answered with maddening simplicity. "There are no malfunctions in your ship that we can find, and there, ultimately, lies the problem." He shifted his gaze to Kirk before continuing. "Captain, the chronometer on the Admiral's ship is fourteen years--exactly--in error. It reads as though it is fourteen years ago. That was the puzzling find which I came to inform you of. "

Lines furrowing slowly through his forehead as he studied the Vulcan, Kirk mulled over the various bits of information before him. He stood, slowly rising like magma ascending from a deep, dormant pit and struggling over craggy outcroppings until it found release in the atmosphere. He balanced his fingertips on the table before him. "Do you mean to tell me," he asked in measured tones to no one in particular, but with wild hazel eyes holding his Chief Navigator's gaze fast, "that this monstrous child, ...that Dimitri Ivanovich is…"

Chekov pulled his shoulders up over his ears and gave the Captain a sheepish smile. "Me."

Kirk clamped his mouth shut before it actually dropped opened.


	10. 10

"That's ridiculous!" Leonov burst out angrily, lurching to his feet as well. "I will not…"

"Admiral," Spock cut him off cleanly and decisively. "Taking into account all information currently available, the logical conclusion is that your ship--with you and your grandson--has, in fact, been displaced fourteen years into the future."

"Mr. Scott mentioned your cruiser appears almost new, yet they stopped constructing that particular model fifteen years ago," Kirk pointed out to him as more and more recent irregularities began making sense to him. "Your grandson said he toured the Excalibur--while under construction?" he mused, trying to remember Dimitri's exact words. "Excalibur's maiden voyage was just nine years after Enterprise, Sir. How long have the Russian Navy and the Historic Districts been established?" the Captain asked in a sudden rush. The man's seemingly--well, idiotic--negative attitude towards them might almost make since if they were a new idea: not the well-grounded institutions Kirk knew.

The man scoffed, waving the words away with a grand gesture of his hand. "Time travel isn't possible except in theory."

"Believe me, it is," McCoy said with a drawl. "We've done it more than once: and we didn't always do it on purpose, either."

"That is not my grandson!" the Admiral roared, throwing an arm out in Chekov's direction as his face filled with a flash of crimson. "I don't know what you people are up to, but I'm not a man to be fucked with!"

Hazel eyes remained steady on the enraged man. From what Kirk had heard, it had never occurred to him to underestimate the power this Admiral would be quick to brandish. That a top Fleet official of Leonov's stature would stoop so quickly to such impotent vulgarity and shake so visibly from his powerlessness in the situation alarmed the Captain at a basic level, however.

"Admiral," is what Kirk said. "I assure you that this situation will be fully investigated and resolved." He reseated himself and folded his hands on the tabletop again. There was nothing subtle about his indication for the Admiral to regain control of himself before he humiliated his rank as well as himself.

"My medical equipment is accurate, Admiral Leonov," McCoy insisted with a note of professional pride. "I can assure you that Chekov here and Dimitri are one in the same person. How that's possible, I leave to others more qualified."

"I will not subscribe to your outlandish theories."

"Dedushka, where are my shoes?"

Kirk leaned toward the still standing man. "We've found outlandish is a rule of thumb here in deep space."

"To suggest that time travel…"

"My shoes," Chekov interrupted again. "Where are my shoes, Dedushka?"

"What the hell is your problem?" the Admiral spat out suddenly, spinning on the Navigator. "How many times do I have to tell you to keep track of your own things? I am not going to waste my time searching for your shoes! I'm busy here…"

He froze mid-sentence, eyes narrowing. Leonov stared at Chekov in silence and he visibly tried to gain control of his uncontrolled breathing.

The Navigator rose in a gesture of respect as the man studied him. After a moment, he brought a hand up to touch two fingers to his temple and then dropped the same fingers to touch his chest.

"Dimitri?" the Admiral blurted incredulously as the Navigator's hand dropped back to his side. He moved up to the younger man and green eyes raked violently over him. "You look just like your father," he pronounced.

"Yes, Dedushka," Chekov responded in an automated tone, eyes fixed somewhere on the table in front of the Captain. He clearly disagreed.

"Why are you in Starfleet?" the Admiral suddenly demanded, face flushing crimson again. His jaw trembled with crippling defeat. "What the hell are you doing in Starfleet! You are the image of your father," he snarled venomously. "You lazy, cowardly...you've crawled into the bowels of Starfleet to hide and let all your talent and gifts shrivel and die!

"Dimitri, you have killed your soul and are a traitor to Mother Russia!" Leonov ended in a rage, swinging his arm with massive force at the Navigator's head.

Chekov's hand shot up, instantly catching the man's wrist and blocking the blow.

Spock was on his feet immediately. "Admiral," he began, but then paused. How quickly he stood and the words that clearly flashed through the Science Officer's steady eyes bore tribute to the Chief Navigator. Spock's unvoiced thought shone, as well, in the eyes of Chekov's shipmates present.

Chekov's exceptional skills, intelligence and unwavering professionalism promised a remarkable career in the Fleet. His striking attention to duty, in fact, caused concern among all of the ship's senior staff. With boundless motivation, the young man's habit of giving two hundred percent to every task, and his addiction to perfection in himself were known by Spock better than anyone else. Chekov often worked side by side with the Science Officer in the Science Labs after duty. Even Spock he did not disagree openly with Admiral Leonov's assessment of the Ensign at the moment, however: that would have been unacceptable.

"Admiral, it is against regulations for one officer to strike another," is all he said.

Leonov chortled. "Is that what you're doing, Dimitri? Are you saving me from a court-martial?"

"No," Chekov retorted evenly, a deathly chill in his voice. "If you touch me my father will kill you." The Navigator's low, breathless voice shuddered in the room. He slowly raised his eyelids and met the Admiral's pale green gaze for the first time with dark, shimmering eyes. "And that would destroy his soul. I won't ever let you hurt him." He shoved the man's arm away forcefully.

Leonov stepped backward, intense green eyes riiveted on Chekov.

Kirk's gaze was on the Navigator's eyes.

They were Dimitri's demonic eyes.

"I don't understand," McCoy's voice of reason cut in. "You're name isn't Dimitri, Chekov."

"It most certainly is," the Admiral retorted. Jaw hard, he glanced at the Doctor as he dropped defiantly back into his seat across from McCoy. "Russia endured centuries of invaders until Dimitri Ivanovich drove them all out."

Leonov gestured at the ship's Navigator. "His father chose to name him in tribute to this hero even before he was born. When the time came, Andrie entrusted the registration of his birth to his godfather. The man," the man growled, leaning in toward the Enterprise officers intently, "tore the paperwork up and forged his own set."

Kirk glanced, startled at Chekov. "Your godfather changed your name on your birth certificate?"

The young man, who had reseated himself and taken to staring at his folded hands on the table again, said nothing for a moment. He shrugged slightly then. "I was raised in a traditional culture: Dimitri Ivanovich does not meet the requirements for a traditional name."

"It's what your father named you. I won't disrespect that, even if he isn't man enough to have done anything about it."

Chekov glanced sharply at the Admiral several times during the conversation, but each time he quickly averted his eyes and returned his gaze back to his hands. Kirk watched him and wondered how many briefings he had conducted without noticing the young man's crystal clear signals.

"Captain," the Navigator suddenly said, raising soulful brown eyes to Kirk when the Admiral finished. "I don't want people to know. I don't want the crew to know who Dimitri is, please."

"Well, I don't wonder," McCoy observed with a glint in his steel-blue eyes.

Ignoring the Doctor, Kirk considered Chekov's request a moment, and the more imminent question of time-line alterations. "Do you remember this childhood trip aboard the Enterprise, Mr. Chekov?"

"I remember making the trip, Sir: but that is all. I don't remember what ship it was on or any details regarding it." He failed to mention he also distinctly remembered it as being his last trip with his grandfather.

"I want you to continue your plans to spend your time with…with…"

"Dimitri?" Chekov asked, flashing an impish smile at his Captain's discomfort.

Kirk returned the smile and found the tension in his neck relieved by the warmth of the chocolate brown eyes radiating amusement in his direction. The young man knew well when and how to ease a situation. _He just needs to learn better jokes._

The inconsequential concern Chekov paid to calling his younger self Dimitri made things simpler and the Captain tried not to think about the hours of psychobabble McCoy would subject him to concerning the matter. He nodded to acknowledge the Navigator's suggestion. "Dimitri," he agreed. "Mr. Chekov, spending your time with him seems to be the best way to ensure that his presence here in no way destroys any of your current life history."

The Captain flashed a conspiratorial smile at the younger man. "You are an asset to both the Fleet and this ship: we don't lose you, do we?" Beside him, the Admiral flinched visibly and Kirk couldn't deny he felt vindicated by the man's response.

"That should not be a concern, Captain," Chekov replied, wide eyes calm and steady on his commander. "Dimitri can't change my life history."

"What makes you think that, Ensign?"

"I've been studying the work of Einstein and Goebel: it was these two who first proved that time travel was theoretically possible. Their theories further proved that you can't change your own lifeline by such things as the Grandfather Paradox: it's impossible if only by its illogic."

"What's the Grandfather Paradox?" McCoy asked.

"The Grandfather Paradox," Spock replied coolly, "Is the idea that by traveling back in time one could, in fact, sire their own father and therefore…"

"Become your own grandfather," the Doctor concluded. "But what's that got to do with this situation?"

Chekov gestured with his previously folded hands. "Simply put, Einstein and Goebel said that if something happened to me when I was eight--even if it was the result of time travel--than it has already happened to me: it's my life history. I'm already living with it.

"They said history in general can be changed, but your own life is already what it is," he concluded emphatically.

Silence met the youngest officer's statements. Kirk, specifically, wondered if this trip with Leonov had ironically pushed the determined Navigator into the career the Admiral so obviously disproved of.

"Well now, I wish someone had mentioned this before in our travels," the Doctor drawled. "Of course," he continued dramatically, "They could be wrong. Or hasn't that occurred to you?"

"I haven't finished studying the available materials," the Navigator said thoughtfully. "I'm not sure the theories can be applied to devices such as the Guardian of Forever. Still..." Chekov stopped and seemed to consider it a moment. He folded his hands and leaned forward again. "Einstein theorized that the atomic bomb, nuclear power and time travel were possible." He scowled melodramatically and pronounced: "I am willing to take the chance that he was right, Doctor."

"Even so," Kirk cut in, taking control of the briefing again. "I think it best to limit Dimitri's exposure to the ship and it's crew." He wished he could convince the Admiral of the same thing about himself.

"We can't just lock him in Chekov's cabin: people will wonder," McCoy insisted. "They'll especially be looking for him after this afternoon's performance--he's become a celebrity."

At this, the Navigator averted his eyes again and barred his teeth in an outright, silent snarl of contempt.

"Is Dimitri aware of the situation?" Spock questioned.

"Yes, Sir: he knew immediately. It was not something I could hide from him."

"Ensign," the Captain drew out thoughtfully. "If we continue to call the boy Dimitri, I don't see any reason anyone else should suspect his actual identity. I'll trust your good judgment in monitoring his activities until such time as we can correct this time aberration."

"Yes, Sir." The Captain saw a flutter of relief in the brown eyes which seemed more intense than called for, but he didn't have time to think about it.

"How long will that be?" the Admiral demanded. "His father expects Dimitri back soon--and in one piece!"

Kirk interlaced his own fingers with great care and straightened his back. "Admiral Leonov," he intoned, "As soon as we can discover what sent you ahead in time we'll be able to determine a way to reverse it."

"I am not reassured," the man spat out.

"Admiral, the Enterprise is the finest ship in the Fleet, with the finest Captain and crew," Chekov snarled self-righteously with a thick accent, dark eyes snapping a glare at the man. "You could not be served better by anyone else."

Leonov jammed his arms across his chest and returned the glare.

"Would I serve under a Captain who wasn't the finest in the Fleet?" the Navigator demanded of him haughtily.

Kirk withheld a wry smile at the young man's blunt impertinence, reminding himself that Chekov's family relationship with the Admiral could only serve to fuel the young man's impetuous nature, despite his best efforts. The Captain only wished he had the same leeway.

"Captain," Spock interrupted the emotional debate. "In addition to the inaccuracies in the Admiral's ship's chronometer, we have pinpointed abnormalities in the ion storm both ships encountered recently."

"Exactly how does an ion storm have abnormalities?" McCoy rasped.

"Ordinarily, one wouldn't," Spock replied. "However, through the data we have been able to obtain in both ship's computers, our research indicates that this particular ion storm was not a natural phenomenon."

"Not…" Kirk sat forward. "Spock, someone created this storm?"

"That is what the data indicates."

"For what possible reason?" McCoy asked incredulously.

"To create a time rift," the Captain concluded quickly, glancing sharply at the Admiral.

"Captain, I resent your implication," the man retorted with a fierce glare. "I'm a desk pilot," he maintained without a hint of apology. "I've never even encountered an ion storm before. It was only because of Dimitri that we got through it in one piece as it was. Only an insane man would take such a risk."

"There are other possible outcomes one might have created an ion storm for," the Science Officer reflected.

In shifting his gaze, Kirk's eyes hesitated when they touched the ship's Chief Navigator. He had his fingers stretched out before him and he was fiddling with them, but he was not looking at them. Chekov's dark eyes were opaque and his intense gaze had turned inward.

"Ensign," the Captain said, calling the man's attention back to the room. "Have you anything?"

The young man looked up at his Captain, not so much startled as reluctantly. Kirk realized his face was several shades lighter than normal.

"Yes, Sir," he said with great, almost painfully soulful eyes. "My father is here, too."

"What?" the Doctor demanded but it was lost in the sound of the Admiral's laughter.

"Your father isn't capable of space travel," he asserted with contempt.

"You don't need a pilot's license to travel in space," Chekov observed. Although his tone was respectful, there was disdain in his dark eyes. It was gone when he turned back to the Captain.

"Sir," he appears to be approximately my age. I saw him briefly in Navigation yesterday. Lieutenant Riley informed me that he is using the name 'Nick Paul' and that he signed on as a crewman at our last planetfall."

"Chekov," McCoy puzzled, his mouth twitching slightly. "Are you saying that your father engineered all this?"

"No, Doctor, my father simply isn't capable of such a thing."

"In extreme circumstances, people sometimes do what you wouldn't expect," the Captain reminded him gently.

"I don't mean he wouldn't do such a thing, Sir," Chekov maintained. "I mean he couldn't: he doesn't have any technological skills. Admiral Leonov will cooberate this."

Kirk's sour look of agreement caused the younger man to hesitate briefly.

"My father is apparently involved, somehow, however," the Navigator concluded.

"Captain," Spock interjected. The care with which he said his commander's rank and the deliberate way he leaned forward to rest his folded hands on the table quickly communicated the importance of the information he had to share. "Five new crewmen signed aboard the Enterprise at Clarion 6. Among them were Nick Paul, subsequently assigned to Navigation, as well as his sister, Kathy Paul. She is serving in Engineering."

"Are you sure?" Kirk asked needlessly. It was the only way he could think to start his heart again.

Spock straightened, raising his eyebrows in a mock demonstration of human indignation. "As the Enterprise's First Officer, its personnel are my responsibility. I am quite sure."

"My daughter," the Admiral concluded immediately, straightening. Green eyes bright with pride, he tapped on the table for emphasis. "Maria could do this: and she's always dragging Andrie along. He's helpless without her."

Kirk saw the flare of light in the depths of Chekov's eyes before he averted his gaze again, saying nothing. No amount of debate was going to settle the question at hand. "Can we see the two people we're talking about, Spock?" the Captain asked.

"On the computer screen, Captain."

The three-sided screen in the center of the table lit up with images of the two new crewmen in question. The young man had a goatee and thick, wavy, coal black hair. Trimmed short in the front, his hair hung in a tangled mass on his shoulders. Wide brilliant blue eyes dominated his tanned face. The pretty young woman was hardly more than a girl. Her honey colored hair accentuated soulful brown eyes which struck the Captain immediately. He felt as though he was looking into Chekov's gaze.

"That's not my daughter," the Admiral declared. "And Andrie..." he hesitated and shook his head vehemently. "It looks like him, but he has brown eyes: like Dimitri. I've never seen either of these people before, Captain."

Chekov's eyes shifted to Leonov briefly and Kirk recognized clearly in the gaze that the Admiral had not, in fact, seen the man's parents for a very long time. He was impressed that the young man restrained himself from making any snide comments about it. Watching as the Navigator's attention turned to back the images on the computer screen, the Captain saw a grey pallor to overtook his face. Chekov stared at them, riveted as though turned to stone.

"Ensign," Kirk asked carefully. "These aren't your parents?"

"No, Sir. They are not my parents," he confirmed. The young man straightened slowly as he raised his eyes to the Captain.

Kirk stilled inside, hazel eyes locking on the young man's dark gaze. The maturity he had only glimpsed there occasionally now filled the entirety of their depths without any attempt of Chekov to conceal it.

"They are not my parents, Sir," he repeated. "They are my children."

"Excuse me?" McCoy demanded, alarmed. "Are you telling me you we have your Grandfather, your child self and your children to deal with--not to mention you?"

"It appears so, Sir."

"With what certainty do you entertain this theory, Ensign?"

Chekov glanced at the screen again for only an instant before meeting the Science Officer's eyes. "One hundred percent, Mr. Spock. These are definitely my children.

"Dedushka," he continued. "Do you remember what name I use whenever we go to the Smithsonian?"

"Of course," the man replied, straightening and turning an amused smile on the Captain. "Dimitri likes the Museum of American History: has a thing for the ruby slippers," he revealed needlessly, and embarrassingly. "The translation of his legal name is Paul, son of Andrew. On trips to America he's been known to tell people his name is Paul Andrews. He is clever," he observed with a subtle note of admiration.

"Nick Paul and Kathy Paul," Chekov reminded them, indicating the images on the screen.

"Nikolai Pavolich and Katya Pavlova," Spock concluded.

The Navigator nodded, eyes narrowing slightly as he resumed studying the faces of grown children he didn't have yet.

"The logical conclusion is that since neither the Admiral nor the Enterprise caused the ion storm and temporal breach, than the Chekov children must have. Our investigation should turn to them. We need to discern how and why this storm and the time breach occurred."

"Do we absolutely know the Enterprise had nothing to do with it?" McCoy asked. "Have I to remind you of the times we--and other space travelers--have mistakenly caused such ridiculous events?"

"No," Spock replied, folding his arms across his chest. "You do not. Although not probable, that the Enterprise inadvertently precipitated these events requires further investigation to eliminate it entirely as a possibility.

Chekov's eyes shifted and held on the viewscreen on the wall, where the small panorama teased his gaze. The senior officer's debate at the other end of the table drifted off and fell away from him as he stared at the stars. He rose slowly and moved over to the viewscreen.

"Computer: viewscreen starboard secondary hull," Chekov instructed quietly.

The view of the stars glazed and cleared, a different pattern presenting itself. _Wrong,_ the Chief Navigator thought instantly, seized with the notion so violently again he couldn't breathe. _There is something wrong with the pattern of stars._

"Mr. Chekov, rejoin us, please," Kirk's voice cut into his thoughts. The reproof in the commander's tone was evident, but the young officer didn't move to obey. He glanced at the Captain, then back at the viewscreen, which he tapped.

"They're not alone, Sir," he said.

Kirk joined him quickly. "What do you mean, Ensign?"

"The stars," the Navigator explained, tapping the screen again. "They're wrong. I knew it, but I couldn't understand why. There's a cloaked ship attached to our secondary hull on the starboard side, Captain."

"Spock…"

The Vulcan was already standing behind the Captain by the time he finished summoning him.

"Sensors would have picked up the standard deviations if we had a cloaked ship traveling beside us," Kirk pointed out, his eyes raking the starfield. They still couldn't read through a cloaking device, but they had learned to notice the changes in the view the sensors picked up.

"Yes," Chekov agreed. "But if the ship was attached by tractor beams or other such devices, there wouldn't be any obvious variations in the deviations for the sensors to pick up."

"Likewise, such a ship would only have engines running on low power, if at all, so the resonance would be below our sensors abilities to distinguish from our own engines," Spock observed.

The Navigator shook his head, as if in silent wonder and drew his fingers over the starfield. "Marvelous. Cloaking devices not only have to erase the image of the thing, but project the images of the things they block out to make it appear nothing's changed," Chekov explained. "Only, they are not perfect. It looks like the starfield, but it's…askew."

"It looks right to me," the Admiral blustered from behind the small group. Kirk was want to admit he agreed.

"No," Chekov said. "Look here--one degree to the northwest. This one, half-degree south. This one…they'll all…they're not right," he concluded, waving his hands fitfully in the air in distress as he dismissed the view.

Kirk eyed him, taking a moment to marvel at how personally involved his officers got in their departments. He had no false modesty about having chosen the most skilled people available for his ship's compliment.

"A ship could not maintain itself like that unmanned, however," the Navigator added. "It has to be manned, Captain."

"I concur," the Science Officer stated.

"Good work, Mr. Chekov."

"Thank-you, Sir."

The Captain paced away from the viewscreen, his eyes meeting his Chief Surgeon's steely blue ones as did so. He didn't need to talk to his friend; he knew what the man was thinking better than he wanted to. He also knew he was going to hear it anyway: it was the Doctor's way of ensuring Kirk hadn't somehow tuned out his conscience.

"To start with, we need Mr. Scott here," he said out loud. "We need all the Chekov's here and we need to identify and get aboard that cloaked ship. Spock, do you think you can get accurate readings on our visiting ship within an hour?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Good. We'll recess and reconvene in one hour. Mr. Spock, order the helm to return to the area of the ion storm: best speed. Arrange for both Scotty and the Chekov's to be here and I'll expect the information on our phantom ship at that time."

"Dimitri?"

Kirk paused, straightening. "No," he said without hesitation. "We need to keep him out of this." To startle Chekov with children his own age contained it's own entanglements, but to subject a child with them struck the Captain as downright abusive. "Dismissed.

"Mr. Chekov," he added in amendment. "Take a seat."


	11. 11

The Captain paced around the briefing room table slowly as everyone else filed out into the corridor. Chekov had already retaken his seat and was sitting dutifully silent with his hands folded in his lap. Hazel eyes glanced at him, but moved on quickly as the very sight of him was painful to Kirk.

They had discussed before what having a Russian Soul entailed. The ever-present, overpowering knowledge that one had done something wrong, deserved punishment, and deserved to suffer reached beyond the comprehension of most non-Russians. Perhaps, Kirk thought, because most never came to believe the age-old adage that no Terrans knew how to suffer like Russians.

The Captain could not imagine what it would be like to be living in the same timeframe as his boyhood self. He, too, had been precocious, but young Dimitri seemed always an energetic step ahead of the world. Chekov had accepted responsibility for him without hesitation. Despite his boundless charm and friendliness, the Navigator was fiercely private and very few people knew anything of substance about him. The boy's presence on board must have been fraught with torture for the man and Kirk paled at the memory of Dimitri's lunchtime performance--in an adorable little sailor uniform, no less.

The Captain considered that the Navigator had tried to deal with the child's presence as best he could for two days--studying Einstein and Goebel, and struggling with the consequences of the time glitch mentally on his own. Chekov was also faced with his grandfather's visit, a relationship Kirk saw as exceptionally stressful for good reason. Now at least two--possibly three--children confronted him as well: children he recognized somehow without hesitation. The young man was clearly suffering in ways incomprehensible to someone not enduring the situation themselves.

Kirk sat down on the edge of the table, pulling his thigh up to rest his forearm on it as he leaned toward the Navigator. He grinned, hazel eyes sparkling charmingly. "Chekov, did your Godfather really change your name to Pavel?" Although they were friendly toward each other, they were not friends per se. The Captain sensed that a tenuous, hazy line seemed to have been crossed and felt comfortable edging more into the young man's personal space. It clearly spoke to how Dimitri's visit had already affected the Navigator's life. Besides, if he was wrong Chekov was skilled at avoiding such unwanted questions.

The younger man glanced down at his hands and smiled a secretive, conspiratorial cock-eyed grin. "Sergie didn't do anything they hadn't agreed on," he answered without hesitation, without indication he minded the question. "It's bad luck to name a baby before birth, my mother thought the name was pretentious anyway, and when I was born…well, Pavel it was."

Somehow, Kirk considered, the man always seemed to leave something out of his stories--truth or fiction. "The Admiral doesn't still insist on calling you Dimitri?"

The Navigator chortled, raising warm brown eyes to his Captain. "Oh, yes, he does, but it was never out of respect for my father. It's the opposite. Andrieivich means son of Andrie and Pavel means 'little one': when I was born they decided I was just like my father." Chekov shrugged. "You see, either name acknowledges my father."

Kirk began, but stopped himself from inquiring further. Still, he felt himself gripped by the human need for gossip anyway. Chekov rewarded him with an easy smile and a warm laugh.

"It's control, Sir," he answered the Captain's unasked question. "My mother fought him about her life until she finally agreed to marry a fine Starfleet Officer he had chosen for her." He shrugged, a sly smile tugging at his lips as his dark eyes gleamed brilliantly. "It wasn't my father.

"Admiral Leonov cannot handle not being in control, Sir. He gets stubborn, and he gets ugly."

The Captain grinned. "I take it your mother's first marriage didn't last long?" he asked.

Chekov coughed, ducking his head to stare at the table. He coughed again. Kirk twisted his head curiously to peer at the young man and found that his wild, cock-eyed grin had completely overtaken his face. His body was trembling with laughter.

When he raised up his wide brown eyes to gaze at the Captain through his long, curled lashes, the older man realized Chekov had be trying to decide how much to share with him. "About two hours," was the Navigator's giggled response after he made that decision. "My father kidnapped her from the reception.

"The Admiral has not spoken to her since. In fact," the young man grinned, winking at Kirk. "I'm not sure my parents ever actually got married. I think she may still be legally married to Commodore..." he stopped suddenly at that, dropping into uncomfortable silence as he straightened stiffly.

The Captain straightened himself, chuckling with a smirk at Chekov's wickedly amused thought. One of the few things well known about the Navigator was that his parents had been contentedly married for eons. Unusual enough, the idea that they may have been simply having a torrid affair instead was ridiculously whimsical. Kirk decided that his Navigator probably was just like his father: after all, he could certainly picture Chekov kidnapping a bride from her own wedding.

"The Admiral is the only one that calls you Dimitri, I take it?"

The young man shrugged, smiling sheepishly as color flushed into his face. "No," he admitted. "I'm afraid not. Back home they call me Dimitri when they think I'm getting a little too full of myself. Russian peasants are good at making sure no one gets uppity."

Kirk smiled, making note of the practice for future reference. "Can I ask you something?" he continued thoughtfully. "I don't think I've ever met anyone who enjoys music as much as you. You're at every sing-along, every performance, every practice with Uhura as she stages the variety shows: you are certainly the only person in existence that enjoys Kevin Riley's singing."

Chekov grinned cheerfully with abandon. "He sings with such enthusiasm, Sir."

"Yes, off-key," Kirk professed with a grin as well. "Uhura marveled that Dimitri has perfect pitch and we all saw he's quite the talented performer. And yet, given all that--you never join in: not even in the sing-alongs in the rec rooms. Why not?"

The Navigator pulled his hands onto the table and studied the nails a long minute, brushing his thumbs along the top of them and poking at their lengths. "Puberty," he finally muttered.

Kirk shoulders dropped slightly in sympathy. "Yes, I've heard that some of the finest male sopranos went flat when their voices changed."

"Choirs used to emasculate boys to preserve their voices in the 17th and 18th centuries."

Kirk winced involuntarily, but the younger man continued without seeming to notice.

"I was never a soprano anyway," Chekov muttered again. "I was an alto as a child."

Silently, the Captain watched as the Navigator continued to examine his hands. He had moved from inspecting his nails and was now scrutinizing his fingers and the rest of his hands. It occurred to Kirk that this was something the young man did when bored at the Navigation Console.

A Captain of a constitution class ship came to know the work habits of his helm team perhaps better than any other of his crew: they were in his full view whenever he was in the command chair. Chekov's ability to become quickly bored had only inspired his creativity. Kirk once thought him to be the fastest navigator in existence and had instead humorously found the man spent great deals of time pre-plotting possible courses. The way to Planet Disney could always be found readily available on Chekov's shifts.

Spock gave him minor projects to work on between navigation duties. Not so strange to the Captain now, Chekov had been caught by the Science Officer silently playing the piano on the console as well. He also spent time inspecting his hands leisurely, as Kirk watched him do now.

Pressured by something inside to stay busy, to always be doing something, McCoy was always concerned about the amount of sleep the young man managed to get. He had a high metabolism and the Russian Navy had trained him not to sleep more than four hours at a time. James Kirk could not imagine trying to keep track of an even higher-energy eight year old of this description.

Despite purposefully having spent little time with Dimitri, the Captain realized he had come to know Chekov better because of him.

"Sulu's right," Kirk commented. "You're a horrible liar."

Chekov glanced up sharply at his commanding officer, swallowing hard as he straightened. Guilt traced over his face.

"Mr. Chekov, look me in the eye and say 'I don't sing any longer because my voice went flat when it changed.'"

The Navigator glanced away, his face coloring. "I knew Dimitri would destroy my life," he muttered.

"So why don't you sing?"

"I just don't sing in public," Chekov answered, turning back to meet Kirk's gaze. "I like seeing other people enjoy themselves. Besides, I have a lot of enthusiasm."

"Ah," the Captain smiled. "The 'Hell's afraid I'll take over' syndrome." At the Navigator's frown, he chuckled. "It means you're a ham."

The sparkle in the young man's eyes told Kirk he knew what had been meant all along. Chekov had a feigned ignorance at times that boggled the mind.

"I have to give Sulu a place to get away from my singing in the shower," he quipped. "Besides," he added quietly. "I never liked performing."

Kirk's soft chuckle was more of a sigh this time and he scratched absently at his knee. His lips were pursed when he raised hazel eyes back to meet Chekov's wide brown ones. Contacting new races, fighting old enemies, facing space anomalies: Starfleet Academy spent mind-numbing hours training its command candidates to deal with these eventualities. They certainly taught their cadets the rigors of documentation, as well, the Captain thought grimly.

The most intricate of diplomatic skills were only skimmed over however, Kirk considered. Oh, yes, they taught them personnel courses and supervision courses and a myriad of psychology theories that seemed oppressive and useless at the time. Nothing in actuality could prepare a commander for the skills needed to tread the fine line between Captain and fellow human being with each unique individual he was responsible for. It was different for each of them.

"Pavel," he intoned evenly, "You well know that you're a very promising young officer, but you have to remember the ability to command relies on many factors. You are facing a great deal of stress and adversity with everything bearing down on you at the moment. Your relationship with your Grandfather alone..."

"Captain," the man said pleasantly. "You're basing your information on my relationship with him fourteen years ago."

"Yes, well," Kirk nodded. "He is here now, however, and this...incarnation of him...disagrees openly and loudly with your opinion of your father," the Captain maintained earnestly. "I know how you feel about your father and it's clearly going to be difficult for you to control yourself. I don't know how you did it throughout the briefing." In fact, he was impressed by the Ensign's composure during the briefing. Despite guarding his privacy, nearly everyone knew that Chekov's father held hero status to him. A notion common among human boys, the Navigator had somehow made it through the war of adolescence that created men with that opinion still intact.

"The Chekov temper," Kirk reminded him.

"Leonov temper," the young man corrected quickly. "My father doesn't have a temper."

The Captain had obviously assumed otherwise. Having met Mikhail Leonov, however, he could now see that Chekov's hot temper may well come from his mother's side of the family.

"I assure you, Sir, that you need not worry about my behavior, Captain. I will continue to conduct myself with the discipline and decorum expected of a Starfleet officer," he maintained. "My father is an utterly peaceful man and to defend his honor with any type of violence would violate who he is," the Navigator explained patiently. "He would be mortified."

Still, the Captain could hear in the tone of his voice that part of the Navigator's words were somewhat to convince himself. "You've said your father works for the government," he commented after a moment, intrigued. "The Admiral said…"

"He's addled?" the Navigator asked with a knowing smile. "He doesn't grasp the vision that's my father's work."

Chuckling, the Captain winced with embarrassment. "He said your father rewrites fairy tales," the older man confessed.

Chekov nodded with a slight shrug. "Not quite. He's a cultural anthropologist--a historian."

_Why does that come as a surprise?_ Kirk wondered.

"He's actually a folklorist by specialty," the Ensign was continuing. "Among other things he collects, preserves and teaches folk culture. That includes folk songs, folk dances and..."

"Fairy tales," Kirk concluded in understanding. "I can see how a career officer might not understand how such work could be valuable to someone in deep space."

Something sparked in the depths of the Ensign's dark eyes and he smirked cryptically. "You'd be surprised, Sir."

"I explore deep space, Ensign: nothing surprises me." The Captain slapped his thigh lightly and said knowingly: "I am gaining a deeper respect for your ability to refocus people," he said when he realized how far off topic they had wandered.

Chekov raised his deep brown eyes to meet the hazel ones regarding him without much charity. The Navigator outright squirmed to take a more upright position in the chair.

"I was saying that successful commander has to have a great many different skills," the Captain repeated. "You are undergoing an enormous amount of stress and it only promises to get worse.

"You won't make it anywhere near to a command unless you make an active effort now to change the way you conduct your daily life," Kirk said.

Chekov didn't say anything, didn't move. He just stared up at his Captain with his wide, unblinking brown eyes in unnerving rapt attention.

Kirk smiled slightly, trying to ease the building tension. He wished he were as apt at the skill as his Navigator was. "You've made close friends with Sulu since you arrived, and have other friends of varying levels, which I'm glad to see. You keep yourself exceptionally busy, but you haven't seemed to develop even one activity that I can see which is a relief valve for your stress. Command is fraught with stress and you have to develop inherent ways to channel it--to let go of the pent up energy that stress inflicts on the human body.

"You won't survive a career in Starfleet pushing yourself the way you do. Not all your activities have to be meaningful or competitive, Pavel. Go to the gym for a good workout, join in our poker game: something. Anything."

"Am I failing to meet Starfleet physical requirements, Sir?" the Navigator asked with genuine concern.

"No, no," Kirk replied instantly. The last thing he wanted was for the man to be worried of non-existent failures. It was true that Chekov didn't work out, but he did swim and the few times Kirk had run across him at the pool he had been surprised to see that the young man's uniform concealed a body that was both firm and well-defined. The Captain didn't know how he accomplished it, but the Navigator definitely had a trained athlete's body. As with all written Starfleet regulations, Chekov apparently saw to it that he was well qualified for the physical requirements.

"But you are ordering me to begin working out, Sir?" Chekov asked stiffly.

Heavens, no, the Captain thought. The enthusiasm the young man would surely embrace his task with would make him eligible for body-sculpting competitions. Kirk sighed. "I'm not ordering anything, I'm just giving advice. The gym is one of my solutions, you'll have to find your own. You are going to have to find ways to deal with stress," he repeated earnestly. "Or you're going to burn out: and no one here wants to see that happen."

"Yes, Sir," he said stiffly again. "Thank you, Sir."

Kirk stood up, trying not to let the flare of anger he suddenly felt actually register. Chekov's brown eyes remained impassive and respectful and his expected silence never wavered. Dimitri had changed the man's life, because the Captain now wondered what exactly the ever-polite Navigator was actually thinking. It was something that never would have occurred to him before the Admiral's visit.

He clasped his hands behind his back. Military decorum never failing him, Chekov stood as soon as his Captain did and fixed his gaze at a distant point as expected.

"On a final note, Mr. Chekov," Kirk said tightly when he found his rational voice. "No commander can personally keep track of all aspects of his ship, no matter how skilled they are. That's why the officers that serve under them are so important: they are the commander's eyes and ears."

"Yes, Sir," Chekov commented flatly when the Captain paused. The expected and pat response only irritated Kirk, however.

He intentionally pushed the irritation aside before he spoke again. "I brushed you aside when you came to me with your concerns. I was wrong," Kirk stated bluntly. "And I apologize. A commander should always make time for his officers."

The Navigator stood frozen, mute: his glassy brown eyes locked on some vague point in the distance. The Captain nearly smiled, knowing the young man's silence meant that he agreed with Kirk's assessment. To say so aloud would reflect poorly on his Captain, however, and that was not something that was in Chekov's nature.

Kirk himself had been trying to understand the action so uncharacteristic of the person he knew he was. Did he thrust Chekov away because he couldn't do the same to the Russian Admiral? Worse--could it have been because the Navigator was the most junior of the command team: would Kirk have done the same to Spock or Scotty at that point in time?

Internal guilt at this unacceptable possibility had delayed the Captain's effort to remedy his actions, and he knew it. His Chief Navigator's youth may have made him impulsive, but his intense mind and commitment to duty was well focused.

"A person who attains a command brings to that position all their failings as well as all their gifts. Do you understand that?" Kirk asked, leaning in so he could catch Chekov's gaze.

"Yes, Sir."

"Good," the Captain acknowledged. "Than you understand they may get tired, sick, or just distracted. An officer doesn't have the privilege of noticing their commander's mood when it comes to ship's business."

He took a deliberate step forward then, physically standing so close to the young man that he could feel the young man's breath on his neck. Russian personal space hovered at only six inches, but as an American, Kirk's zone of comfort settled at nearly a meter and it was a significance he saw was not lost on Chekov.

"Ensign, if you ever let information that may be important to this ship escape my notice again--for whatever reason," the Captain said tightly, "I'll court-martial you."


	12. Chapter 12

The lights were dimmed in Chekov's cabin and Sulu was sitting motionless at the desk, hands folded in his lap, when the Navigator entered. The younger man stopped, his body tensing involuntarily. He rubbed the computer tape in his hand with his fingers like it was a worry stone. He instantly knew that it was far more than the lights that were dim in the room.

"Where is he?"

"Sleeping," the Helmsman said tightly.

Chekov clenched the tape then, purposely making it bite into his hand. "Was he much trouble?"

The older man stood slowly, without any change in his stony expression. "No," he bit out. "He was asleep when I got here."

At least Dimitri knew how to follow direct orders, the Navigator thought with relief. Although he knew that wasn't it. By nine, the Navy's four hour shifts had already been indelibly programmed into his body. Chekov still could sleep no more than four hours at a time. While he did so at night, his habit of prowling the ship the rest of the time Alpha crew were asleep kept the rumors of him being some sort of ghoul persistent.

The other two to three hours of rejuvenation his body required he caught during breaks and after his duty shifts. He could instantly put himself to sleep and wake at pre-set will. With a body efficient at signaling him when its basic systems were running down, he realized now that it was screaming at him of the need to sleep. He sighed wearily.

"Look," he said, addressing the immediate problem in a rush. "I'm sorry for sticking you with baby-sitting. Thanks for doing it."

Sulu said nothing in return: just stood, black eyes fixed on him, unblinking.

He knew the Chief Helmsman as well as any human could know another. Assigned as his mentor at the Academy, fate's twist had later seen him posted on the same ship as the older man. Their respective positions found them sharing a bathroom with adjoining cabins. Whether fate smiled upon them or was ill tempered in these arrangements was open to debate at any given moment.

Service in the military had made friends between the strangest combinations of fellows wherever there had ever been a service. While both men had a single minded enthusiasm and gusto in living, a boundless zeal in grasping each moment that passed, the similarity in their personalities ended there. The younger man's intense Russian soul filled him with enthusiastic, demonstrative emotions that he restrained with effort. He had a few, close friends and when something interested him he ground the very soul out of it. The older man, while American for countless generations, came from a family that still held to their Japanese heritage of quiet honor and restraint. The depth of a bow is how they expressed their feelings toward one another. He had countless friends and was known to skip from one hobby to another with breakneck speed.

While Chekov's native language had no word for privacy, Sulu's had no word for kiss.

Despite all this, they had found a self-declared brother in each other: perhaps the universe's declaration that the concept of ying and yang existed everywhere. So when there was something that didn't balance, they knew it immediately.

"What's the matter?" the Navigator asked bluntly.

"Let's just say it was an illuminating experience," Sulu sneered tonelessly into the dim room.

Chekov shook his head and gestured in futility. "I'm not telepathic," he complained irritably.

The Helmsman stared at him another moment, then jerked his head toward the desk where the boy's boots and hat sat. "Real leather boots," he commented.

"Uniform issue for every sailor," the Navigator acknowledged.

"These are custom made," Sulu persisted.

Chekov eyes darted over at the desk, the hair on the back of his neck prickling in instinctive warning. Realizing why, every cell in his body came to a still. "Well, they would have to be," he answered hollowly without looking away from the hat resting there. "It's not as though there are hundreds of cabin boys enlisted now, is it?"

"Strange point," Sulu observed dryly, cocking his head at the younger man self-righteously. "I thought the Admiral doesn't allow cabin boys in N.I.R.N."

The acronym for the New Imperial Russian Navy brought a sharp glance from Chekov, who knew the Commander in Chief of the Navy was disgruntled at the ever-growing use of it. The navy often attracted society's misfits who finally found a place in the tight-knit camaraderie of the ships' crews. Occasionally, it had even become a rehabilitation solution for Earth's courts. They were brilliant sailors, but they weren't necessarily the kind of men you wanted influencing the young. "No. The Admiral doesn't feel it's an appropriate place for children," he replied.

The Helmsman snatched the small hat off the desk then and shoved it toward his younger friend in a threatening gesture.

Chekov stared at the belyanska and his mind froze into a vast wasteland. Sulu had picked up quite a bit of spoken Russian from him: enough to get the man in trouble in just about any situation. His knowledge of the written language was almost non-existent, however. Only a handful of sight words—such as Chekov's name—did the Helmsman recognize.

The black ribbon around the hat's brim had the name of the ship the boy served on emblazoned on it in gold, as was customary. Sulu knew the word well.

"So, what?" the Navigator asked thinly, unable to come up with anything better. "It's not like they keep me informed of personnel changes." In fact, they did. He knew whenever anything changed aboard his old ship, but he wasn't admitting that now. He was just grateful the boy's name wasn't written inside the hat. He remembered specifically the very day he got his first hat with his name in it: it had immediately made him feel grown up. No longer could everyone automatically know which hat was his just by the size.

The sailors had told him it just meant he was getting a fat head.

Chekov kneaded the computer tape in his left hand again. It was getting damp with his sweat. "Hikaru," he spat out with irritation. "I don't know what your problem is exactly, but I've had a really bad day and I've got to go back to another briefing: so it only promises to get worse. I'm not in the mood for this. I'm sorry for sticking you with Dimitri and I'll get Uhura or Chapel to take over if you want me to."

"Well, don't expect me to feel sorry for you," Sulu spat out, throwing the hat back on the desk and knocking the boots over. "I have not one bit of sympathy for your _problems_. Why don't you just go sulk and wallow in your misery: it's what you're best at, after all, isn't it?"

The vileness dripping off the Helmsman's tone hit the younger man in the chest as though he'd been pounded by the man's fist. "Listen," he bit out with a gesture of defense. "I don't know what your problem is, but if you want a fight, fine: just not now. We can have the all-time blow out fight of the century tomorrow morning: just not now. Before breakfast, after breakfast: your pick. Topic: your pick. Just not now!"

"Oh, fine," Sulu sneered, curling up his lip. "That's the way you are: you always have to be in control. Everything has to be your way. You're such a spoiled brat!"

Chekov blinked hard, swallowing, but the older man stopped as he turned to move away. They stood in silence a long moment.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that," the Helmsman said quietly.

That he was spoiled Chekov was the first to admit, but calling the Russian a brat was igniting an emotional button of epic proportions. Sulu knew that: and Chekov knew his friend wouldn't purposely attack him on such a basic level.

"Why are you so upset, Hikaru?" he asked, and then repeated: "What has you so upset?"

The older man made no movement for a long while. Finally, he drew a tremulous breath and turned, sauntering over to face Chekov directly. He stared at him hard before speaking.

"You want the Japanese version?" he asked, his tone as hard as his dark eyes. With two fingers, he jabbed the Navigator's chest repeatedly as he spoke. "YOU dishonored our friendship."

"_What_?" The younger man knocked Sulu's hand away and nursed the sore spot on his chest. "What are you talking about?"

"Do you need the Russian version?"

"Apparently so," Chekov blurted out indignantly.

Sulu lapsed into silence again, staring motionlessly at the other man. Chekov saw turmoil in not only the dark eyes that faced him but in the subtle changes in the face he knew so well. The Russian couldn't spend eight hours nearly every day sitting next to someone without learning every nuance of their countenance.

Every relationship involved some amount of compromise, of jostling to meet somewhere in the middle where both were comfortable. This was a testament of their friendship. The passionately emotional Russian held in check his need to be wildly demonstrative with his closest friend: especially on the ship. With difficulty, he restrained from expressing his feelings as any sane Russian man would. Chekov didn't hug Sulu, didn't kiss him on the cheeks, didn't even talk about how he felt–except in Russia where it was downright expected.

As for the restrained Japanese-American...well, he put up with Chekov's emotional Russian culture when necessary. To actually move any closer to expressing how he felt took more effort than was reasonable to expect of anyone.

"You hurt me," Sulu said, his voice hoarse with difficultly. "You hurt me."

The younger man shook his head vigorously, complete ignorance and concern shining in his eyes. "What on Earth did I do?"

Sulu brushed his hand through his hair before answering with at sigh. "You know even in a perfect family like yours there are secrets," was what he drew out tonelessly, cryptically.

"You're out of your mind," Chekov said indignantly.

"Secrets," the Helmsman insisted, strolling away now. "Even in your family. At least one, anyway. Do you know what I was worried about the first time you brought me home?"

"Yes: that I was going to make a pass at you."

Sulu hesitated, turning back to eye the Navigator. "Well, yes," he agreed. The topic hadn't come up and he'd honestly had more than a few suspicions of the man's motives for the invitation.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Chekov said easily.

"Very funny," the older man rasped. "The entire village threw a huge party when we got home," he added.

"It's the tradition whenever anyone who left returns."

"You drank a lot," Sulu commented.

"You have noticed that I'm Russian?" the Navigator asked, wide eyes innocent.

At that moment another voice interrupted their conversation. Chekov frowned and eyed the bedroom. The chill that began to creep through him again took his breath.

The Helmsman seemed self-satisfied for some reason. "I didn't know if your family knew that you talk in your sleep when you've had too much to drink," he explained.

"Now why would that be a secret? And why would it worry you?"

It didn't happen often. He actually hated getting drunk. Kirk thought he hated the feeling of being out of control, but it was the day after he actually despised. He had no patience for being sick. He controlled his true drunkenness with a ferocity and Sulu knew Chekov's high tolerance for alcohol wasn't the only way he maintained control in rec room parties. The secretive man realized early the advantages to always drinking a clear, odorless liquid: humans couldn't tell if a glass actually had vodka in it—or water.

The boy's voice came out of the bedroom again, sleep-muttered words that edged into the base of Chekov's skull. He took careful steps toward his friend.

"Exactly how much did you give him to drink?" Sulu asked.

Between Kirk and Sulu, the pizza and beer was entirely a bad idea, the Navigator considered belatedly. "Not enough to worry about," he replied. Chekov wished that even he agreed with himself.

Sulu regarded him darkly. "Do you realize that while living with you at the Academy I did research on people who talk in their sleep?"

Chekov straightened indignantly at the personal intrusion. "You did research on me?"

"Yes," the Helmsman answered without apology. "There are actually two different types of sleep talkers."

"Oh, really," came the droll reply.

Sulu folded his arms across his chest with superiority and resettled his back against the room divider. "Yes," he said again. "People who are asleep either talk gibberish, or in their native language.

"You don't talk gibberish," the Helmsman commented.

"Fascinating," the Navigator sighed, regarding the man dimly.

The boy's voice interrupted them again. It was impossible to ignore and Chekov turned his head robotically to stare at Dimitri's motionless legs, the only thing visible from where they stood.

"Not gibberish," he heard Sulu say from somewhere in the distance. "The brain's higher language functions are shut down when you sleep, so it doesn't translate."

And Dimitri spoke again.

Chekov's wide eyes darkened and his breath began coming hard and fast: rushing through him with a flood of adrenaline and heat.

"Family secrets," Sulu reminded his younger friend with tightly controlled anger and outright gloating. "Did you actually think that I wouldn't recognize a little Russian cabin boy from your ship who wants to join Starfleet and who happens to talk in his sleep when he drinks?"

Sulu stopped, glaring at Chekov. "Who talks in his sleep, but not in Russian?"

Chekov's feet and legs were stone: cemented into the deck no matter how desperately he willed them to move.

Dimitri spoke again and his familiar voice jarred the Navigator's body loose. He rushed past the older man, through the bedroom, and into the safety of their shared bathroom. The lights sprang up automatically, which irritated him to no end.

Sitting down on the only seat available, he let his head fall and clenched his hands between his knees. He made no effort to chase away the chill or control his racing pulse. He knew his solitude would be short-lived.

When he came in, Sulu stood in the doorway without speaking for a moment. "That's not how that seat was meant to be used," he commented finally.

"Even I don't make jokes that bad," the Navigator rasped without looking up.

"Oh, I think that could be debated," the older man replied as he moved into the room. He folded himself down on the floor directly opposite his younger friend, fixing his position so little effort was needed to make eye contact with the man's downcast gaze.

"Malyenki," Sulu intoned. "You picked up so many languages traveling as a child, you should be glad you didn't end up with Chinese as the language you think in."

"I don't know any of the Chinese language tree," he replied soberly. "What I do know are mostly Slavic dialects."

The Helmsman eyed him. It was like Chekov to minimize his talents. "That language isn't Slavic, Pasha. It's from the Basque language tree."

Chekov blinked and made the first effort to raise wide, soulful eyes to the other man. "How would you know that?" he asked.

He received a shrug as his reply. "Your father told me."

The Navigator's eyes darkened. "I don't want to talk about it," he bit out.

Sulu nodded in understanding.

"Pavel, do you think the stories your father tells about your childhood are true?" the Helmsman asked after a moment.

"I'm sorry," the younger man snarled. "I didn't realize this had been declared 'annoy Chekov day'." Although the way the day had been going, he should have suspected.

"I think the stories are true," Sulu continued easily, ignoring his friend's sarcasm.

Chekov straightened then, screwing up his face in distaste as he leaned his back against the wall. "Hikaru, you know my father has a talent for spinning yarns: and I'm his favorite topic."

The older man nodded somberly. "He does have an eloquence for words," he agreed fondly. A smile skittered over Sulu's face and his dark eyes sparkled. "My favorite is how he used to talk to you every night while your mother was pregnant and sleeping. I can picture him laying there, chatting away for hours."

"It's no wonder I got used to no sleep," the Navigator muttered, but his eyes drifted away from his friend's. He still kept with him tapes of his father's fairy tales so he could hear the familiar stories–and the man's voice.

Sulu smiled softly, knowing exactly what the younger man was thinking. "You've always had a special bond with your father, Malyenki," he commented with emotion.

"His doing, not mine."

Eyes widening, the Helmsman eyed his friend with amusement. Why the Navigator felt he could lie to Sulu and get away with it was always beyond his understanding. "Your mother says you were born early because you couldn't wait to meet him," he said after a moment.

"It was the only way I figured I could shut him up," Chekov snarled in response.

Sulu laughed aloud, even though he already knew the response he was going to get. He had purposely set up a well-known joke in the Chekov family. "Pavel, when you're with your father the two of you are in your own world. It's like you share the same soul."

Chekov fixed on him, dark eyes unreadable. He scowled. "Good Lord, he's gotten to you, too."

The Helmsman ignored him. Instead, he observed: "You're not jealous of my relationship with your father because you've got the kind of bond with him nothing can ever touch."

The Navigator didn't answer. Sulu cocked his head and eyed him. "You both have an Old Soul," he stated.

Chekov froze. Wide eyes met the older mans: dark and depthless with an openness that was raw. He blinked, but the ancient darkness in the eyes didn't change. There was little else that cold have proven Sulu's point. "McCoy was right," the Navigator said in perfect, unaccented English. "You're spending too much time with Russians."

"Your eyes: it's deep in your eyes, Malyenki," was Sulu's calm reply, ignoring him again. "You've learned to hide it, but it's there. Something old, older than you—as old as history itself."

The Navigator glanced away uncomfortably, breaking contact with even his closest friend. He shook his head and chewed on his lip dismally. How often he thought he'd escaped the babbling of Russia's Old Ritualists. "Go away."

"Listen," Sulu persisted, shaking his head and gesturing fitfully. "I haven't figured out the whole 'everyone has a soul that goes to heaven or hell' thing, but I do know the Russian's are right when they say certain individuals are born with Old Souls: souls that intrinsically carry the emotional memory of their people. You can see it in their eyes.

"Both you and your father have Old Souls, Pavel. You don't just know about the 900 day blockade of Leningrad or the battle of Stalingrad, you can remember what it was like to be there: you FEEL it.

"It's not an original concept: the Russian's just perfected it," the Helmsman asserted. "Cultural anthropologists elsewhere call it ancestral memory. It's supposed to be why even the most apathetic Americans have a nearly violent reaction to the concept of freedom: their country's foundation is in their cells."

"That's it. You're not going home with me anymore," Chekov snarled thickly. "And you're not writing to my father anymore."

Sulu laughed out loud despite himself. Chekov was dutifully responsible about keeping in touch with people. The Helmsman was not nearly so. When he had lapsed some months past he'd received a package from Andrie Chekov. It contained paper and pens, with a note saying Sulu had obviously ran out.

A thunderous, gentle admonition: it was typically Andrie Chekov.

The Navigator was desperately fighting back a grin.

"Look," Sulu blurted out. "When you and your father are together, Pavel, you don't speak Russian."

Chekov stopped grinning. "Wha...?"

The Helmsman shot up a finger, wagging it at the younger man to stop his instantaneous response. "I've stayed at your house. Whether you're sitting out under the stars together, lying in the oven...even stopping in his office for a book: if you're alone, you don't speak Russian to each other. You slip out of it instantly, unknowingly.

"What language did your father talk to you in on those nights before you were born?" he asked suddenly. "What language did your father speak in his home as a child?"

The younger man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and studying the Helmsman as he considered the question. His father was not born in the State of Russia: he was not ethnically Russian. "Georgian. He's Georgian: they would have spoke Georgian at home even after they moved into Russia," he concluded out loud with a note of surprise in his voice. He found it odd that the idea had never occurred to him.

"Pavel, it's not a secret. It's just that the family accepts it like it's...twinspeak. It's your own private language. No one else in the house speaks Georgian: not even your mother. The Georgian language is part of your fundamental connection to him.

"The point," Sulu contended, "Is that you're not thinking in Georgian when you sleep." He stretched out his legs before him in a show of great luxury and he grinned broadly. "Malyenki, you're still talking to your father at night."

The Navigator sat motionless, staring at his older friend with eyes so brilliant they were mesmerizing. He chewed on his lower lip with innocent charm. "The central government spent centuries trying to eradicate every language but Russian," he mused out loud with a flourishing gesture. "The Georgians were particularly fierce in their resistence. It makes sense I'd identify with them: I can be a little stubborn"

"Really, I hadn't noticed," Sulu observed with an affectionate smirk. His dark eyes held his friends in silence. "Pavel, why didn't you tell me? For two days you've been going through this alone. I could have helped: what do you think friends are for?"

Chekov stared at the Helmsman, unresponsive. Of course he was right, but the option hadn't even occurred to him the younger man.

"I thought we were past this," the older man finally said. "You don't have to keep ME out. Do you understand that's what hurts?"

The Navigator kneaded the tape that was still in his hand. It was true. In the culture that had come down to them, traditional Russians were taught to be inherently distrustful of others and, more than most, Pavel's life had reinforced this. In his family's travels he'd found people often acted the way they did only to ingratiate themselves with the adults around him. Instinctively, he had learned to study people with an innate skill and carefully guarded how close he allowed them to come.

"Malyenki," the Helmsman observed quietly. "I thought you trusted me."

Chekov pulled his shoulders up in a miserable shrug. "I'm sorry, Koshka. I couldn't get past the thought of telling the Captain and getting rid of them."

The Helmsman screwed up his face, narrowing his eyes and glaring at his friend. It was bad enough Andrie had given him the nickname, but his friend knew better to drag it back aboard the ship. "I swear, if Uhura ever hears you call me that, I'll kill you. Slowly."

The younger man pouted, eyes of liquid chocolate gazing up at the Helmsman through long lashes.

Sulu glanced away, shifting his jaw fiercely. After a moment he glanced back darkly. "You're not eight and I'm not female. Don't make me strangle you."

A brilliant, crooked grin flashed across the younger man's face. He shrugged. "It's always worth a shot."

Shifting his legs, the older man shook his head. "This must be difficult. Your grandfather doesn't seem to like you much."

Chekov's smile faded, but didn't disappear. The brown eyes saddened genuinely. "He does. He loves me. Only when I was young..." he hesitated. Sulu saw a calculation filtering subtly in the depths of the man's dark eyes. He was used to it by now and it no longer annoyed him. In fact, it amused him. He waited to be determined as trustworthy once again.

"I remind him of my father," the Navigator explained. "Dedushka feels like he has already had one person he loves stolen away by him: he's afraid to take the chance of losing another. He knows I'm going to end up working for Andrie Chekov."

Sulu chuckled. "He may love you, but he obviously doesn't know you."

"I don't make it easy."

"It's part of your charm," the Helmsman observed. It didn't come as a surprise that Chekov hadn't thought of reaching out to anyone but the Captain for help. His stubborn independence was something the young Russian would be battling his entire career. Truth be told, Sulu knew the Navigator hadn't even begun to understand how his strong-minded determination and wariness of others squirreled its way through his everyday life. Chekov routinely avoided advances from women, but he invariably broke up with the passive women he dated from boredom. He would never be content romantically until he found someone that would challenge both his wit and fiery stubborn streak.

Why his mind had wandered onto such a strange road baffled Sulu. "You need a babysitter while you figure out how to send Dimitri back?" he asked.

Chekov nodded, but his eyes were furtive.

"What else is going on?" the Helmsman asked knowingly.

The Navigator didn't respond immediately. Sulu was, in fact, as close as he hoped a brother could have been and he allowed himself to be grateful the man was part of his everyday life. He understood his younger friend on a basic level.

"I'm dead," Chekov finally said.

Sulu stared at him. "Really," he pronounced. "I must say you're quite animated for a corpse."

"I mean I'm going to die," the Navigator responded with irritation, twisting the tape in his fingers furiously.

"Pavel, we're all going to die."

"Soon."

The Helmsman wanted to say he was ready to help the morose Russian on his way, but resisted. He sighed instead. "And what portents this doom today?"

Chekov held up the computer tape. "I may have chose a career in space, but I am quite rooted in my traditional culture: an obsolete person even."

Sulu raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. The Enterprise's Chief Navigator was by far the most conservative man he'd ever met. Chekov's idealistic, noble nature often struck the Helmsman as appropriate for one of King Arthur's knights. "No!"

"I'm an only child: an only son," the younger man asserted. "Viktor Chekov has no sons either and it's still important to me that my family endures. Do you understand that, Hikaru? I wanted to work in space but I don't want a wife here. I want a family in Russia where my parents can help raise grandchildren in my culture: as our people always have."

"And you can pop in every year or two to furnish more kids," Sulu quipped lightheartedly. What he thought was that the younger man spent far too much time considering the larger questions in life.

"I'm serious," the Navigator retorted, petulant like anyone being dismissed as a child. "I knew the risk I was taking going to space, so before I took my first posting I made sure that it would be possible for my family to continue even if something happened to me."

The Helmsman scowled at him. Suddenly, a wild grin flashed across his face and he burst out laughing. "Pavel Andrievich, are you telling me there's a clinic back on Earth hoarding countless potential Chekovs? I'm surprised your father hasn't taken advantage of the option already!"

"My parents don't know," the younger man answered, his face coloring slightly. "I suppose it's another family secret."

"Well, then how…"

"Sergei and Tatiana know."

"Just your Godfather and your parent's ward?"

"Yes."

Sulu shook his head, gesturing in confusing. "Isn't planning for your death…I don't know: bad luck? Traditional Russians don't even plan for the eventual birth of child when the woman's pregnant."

Chekov's face grayed in silent agreement, but said nothing. He held out the tape. "We have other time travelers aboard. Go get a viewer."

Climbing to his feet, the Helmsman took the tape and disappeared into his cabin. He reappeared a moment later, viewer in hand with the tape in it.

"Good God," he said, hesitating at the door.

The Navigator chewed on his lip and took the time to examine his fingernails. "When we talked about it we always joked that Tatiana could bear dozens of my children after I was gone.

"I didn't think it would actually be her," he remarked soberly.

Sulu glanced up sharply from eyeing the small viewscreen. There was not arguing with the Navigator: it was abundantly clear what combination of genes had produced the people imaged there. Tatiana had obviously been the mother to Chekov offspring. In distracted mind wanderings, the Helmsman had always thought the two would produce striking children together. Not in the way Chekov was describing, however. It was almost impossible to the Helmsman that the younger man still didn't consider more rational alternatives.

"Tatiana is the best candidate," was the ridiculous thing he said aloud. He continued the thought. "She's a good person and already lives with your parents, so they could raise the children together. Isn't that what you would want?"

Chekov eyed him tentatively. "I suppose…" he drew out.

Lowering the viewer, Sulu stared at him a moment. "Pavel," he decided to venture. "Did it occur to you that your death is not the only reason Tatiana may have mothered your children? I mean, there are less—medical—ways for that to happen."

The Navigator lurched to his feet, his face immediately brilliant crimson with horror. "That–that..." he stammered, eyes wild. "That's disgusting! She's my SISTER!"

Sulu scowled at him. "She's not really your sister any more than I'm really your brother."

"Yes," Chekov retorted, swinging around to leave. "And she's on the top of the list of people I want to sleep with—right up there with you and my mother!"

Alarm flashed across the Helmsman's face. "I hope you meant that sarcastically!"

The younger man stopped before the door and flashed his eyes back at his friend. "Why would you even have to say something like that?"

"You're just encouraging people," Sulu said tightly.

Chekov looked around the room significantly. "There's no one here," he pointed out. "Small minds have to occupy themselves with small things, Hikaru. The nature of our relationship is hardly the most interesting rumor roaming the ship. Don't let it bother you."

"I don't see how it can't bother you!" Sulu retorted.

The Navigator let his liquid brown eyes regard the older man until he actually squirmed under the scrutiny. "You know full well that if my parents hadn't taught me to ignore what people say about me I'd be impossible to live with."

"As if you're not now."

"You are a catch," Chekov said, flashing a wry grin back at his friend. "Besides, the same people that have me in your bed also claim I'm a priest."

"Orthodox priests have to be married," Sulu observed.

"Yes, well, let's not ruin their fun with facts. I'll let you know when I'm leaving again," he added, but then hesitated. "You going to be around to talk tonight?" he ventured. It bothered him that he didn't remember the Captain or the Enterprise.

His friend nodded. "We have a Monopoly game to finish, if I recall."

"Capitalist pig."

Sulu grinned as the man disappeared into his own cabin again. He turned as Uhura came into the room from his cabin door behind his back.

She gave him a sly smile. "No one doing anything interesting in here? Darn: bad timing," she added, folding her arms across her chest and leaning on the door jam. "Do you want to join me for dinner?"

"Sorry, I've got to baby-sit Dimitri."

She gave it a few minutes, then eyed the Helmsman and the empty room. "Why are you just standing in here?"

He turned and looked at her quizzically. "Am I a catch, Nytoya?"

Cocking her head, the Communications Officer fell to examining him—up and down—with great care.

"Oh, stop it!"

She let out a light-hearted laugh. "What is this about, Hikaru?"

"I just want to know how someone who is such an astute judge of human nature can be altogether stupid at the same time!" he proclaimed.

An easy smile flashed across her soft features. "Chekov?"

"Stupid," Sulu insisted. "His father claims he's the stupidest person ever born," he added.

Her eyes widened. "I've always thought our Chief Navigator quite bright."

Sulu shook his head, screwing up his face. "Do you ever remember Chekov talking about his parent's ward, Tatiana?"

She beamed. "The phrase 'pain-in-the-ass-pest' comes to mind. The girl seems to rejoice in annoying him when he's home."

"Humph," Sulu replied, and flashed her a shrewd look. "Believe me, he does as much 'tormenting' as she does."

Uhura straightened, hearing the cryptical tone behind the words with an immediate understanding of its sinister meaning. Alarm flashed across her sable face. "Do you mean to tell me…," she gasped, flustered. "Oh, Hikaru, Pavel Chekov would never… For heaven's sake, doesn't she sleep in his bed!"

"Of course he wouldn't…" he began in reply, but hesitated as he recognized the peculiar reprehension on the woman's face. "Nytoya," he ventured, fighting the smile tugging at his mouth. "You've heard Chekov talk about her: how old do you think Tatiana is?"

She considered the question before answering. "I don't know—twelve, I suppose."

He grinned broadly, chuckling: mostly to himself.

"Fourteen?" she corrected her estimation.

The man burst out in a whole-hearted laugh then. "Nytoya," he said. "Tatiana is twenty."

Uhura's mouth dropped open. "But he talks about her like she's just a little girl: no more than a child!"

Sulu shrugged, smirking like a child himself. "She was when they met and Chekov hasn't seemed to notice she's grown up over the years. I told you he was stupid."

"And they sleep in the same bed?" she continued in amazement. She gave him a ludicrous stare. "Does she realize that he's no child?"

He rolled his eyes away furtively, but chortled so hard the laugh shook his body. "Let's just say I don't think it's not a platonic situation on both their parts."

"Good heavens!" She joined his laughter. "This has the makings of a good novel, love."

The Helmsman shook his head, considering the information Chekov had recently been faced with and his ever-continuing blindness to what was obvious to anyone that had ever seen Pavel and Tatiana together.

"I'm just not sure he'll ever realize she's grown up," he commented with frustration. _Or how he actually feels about her._

Uhura smirked at him affectionately. "Love, all men are more than a bit blind and stupid regarding affairs of the heart. It's simple really: hasn't it ever occurred to you how our little hothead would react if he saw some other man treating her like a grown woman, especially if she was ignoring him at the same time? You know…say another man who's close to him?"

The Helmsman stopped laughing. "I couldn't!"

She shrugged. "I mean just an act. Sounds like she'd be willing to play along: grateful even."

"He'd kill me!" he retorted in horror.


	13. Chapter 13

Chekov's cabin was still dim when Sulu stepped inside again. He hesitated, eyes falling on the boy's sleeping form. Even as a child he slept motionless on his back like a corpse.

_Bunks on Navy ships have no headroom: you can't twist and turn. _Service aboard them had permanently marked the man.

He strolled into the living area without fear he'd wake Dimitri. He slept like the dead too. The Navigator was sitting at the desk bent over a steaming glass of tea. Cheek resting on his hand, he made no sign of noticing his helm partner's entrance but seemed totally entranced with whatever was in the bottom of the glass.

Sulu stopped behind him and peered over his shoulder. There was nothing but dark, strong tea in the podistranka. A full cup, apparently only there for its visual appeal. Resting his hand on the man's shoulder, the Helmsman leaned closer to his ear. "Malyenki," he pressed quietly, so as not to startle him. "You have another forty-five minutes: go get some sleep. You can use my bed."

Chekov lowered his hand and twisted around to look at him. "Thanks, no. I'm fine."

"Did anyone ever tell you that lie poorly?"

"You. All the time."

"What are friends for?" Sulu observed, straightening.

"I assure you," the Navigator replied with a thick accent. "I will continue practicing."

"Good," the older man agreed, patting the man's shoulder. It was surprisingly muscular—something Chekov's small frame hid. His body, too, still bore the effects of working on a sailing ship. "The skill will come in handy. Go get some sleep," he repeated. "What's a few more minutes of baby-sitting a sleeping kid?"

When the man began shaking his head, Sulu squeezed the shoulder to shut him up. "I'm a senior officer: don't obligate me to make that an order, Ensign."

In a supreme example of military decorum, Chekov screwed up his face and stuck his tongue out at the senior officer in question.

"I'll put you on report!" the Helmsman declared in mock offense.

"Good," the younger man retorted, standing. "Send me to the brig: I can use the time off."

"You're incorrigible," Sulu snarled, whacking him on the back sharply as he passed to follow the 'order'.

"And you can join me in the brig for striking a fellow officer," the man sneered back over his shoulder.

"You want to be 'struck', just keep it up and I'll 'strike' you, alright," the older man muttered.

Chekov stopped at the door to the bathroom and leaned back to peer at Sulu through the room divider. He flashed a crooked, wild grin with a wicked gleam in his dark eyes. "And to think my family put up with me for seventeen years."

"Saints: all of them! And wake yourself up—I'm not an alarm clock!"

Sulu stared at the door after it closed. Waiting. Restlessly, his eyes roamed the living area after a moment. The Navigator would want the glass of tea disposed of, cleaned and put away. He was downright anal. Unfortunately, the fact was that Sulu was anything but. They'd come to an easy understanding early in their relationship: he didn't mess too much and Chekov didn't clean too much. The Helmsman wouldn't put the glass away 'right' and it would just annoy the other man. So he left it.

His eyes spotted the boy's boots where they had been moved to the deck in the corner, and the hat that was resting on the shelf above them. Scooping them both up—one in each hand—he strode into the bedroom and stopped at the edge of the bed. He eyed the bathroom door furtively. Normally, Chekov could drop right off to sleep, but he wondered how the young man could ever put himself to sleep in the chaos the Helmsman's cabin had become now that it was the repository for most of the Navigator's personal belongings. He supposed the fact that Chekov was even still in the cabin bode well. He just hoped the man wasn't cleaning.

Sulu rested the boots and hat on the bed and shook the child's shoulder. "Dimitri."

The boy blinked open wide brown eyes, awake instantly.

"C'mon, get up," he instructed. "We have to go see the Captain."

Sitting up, Dimitri immediately pulled on his boots and scrambled after Sulu into the living area. "You're Lieutenant Sulu?"

"Yes. Here," the Helmsman continued, randomly pulling a book off a nearby shelf and handing it to the boy. "Bring a book to keep you occupied." He moved to enter the corridor, but the child stayed rooted to where he stood.

"Dimitri," he coaxed.

The boy raised his eyes from the books spine and he offered it back. "My father hasn't written this book yet," he stated.

Sulu stared at it, the realization of how complicated the situation was settling on him. "Well, put it back," he advised. "Pick something else: quickly."

The boy did so and scampered over to the Helmsman, standing with the obedience of a soldier.

If he hadn't, perhaps Sulu wouldn't have hesitated. "You're in uniform," he commented, eyes moving over the boy. "Where's your hat?"

Twisting his head to the side, Dimitri stared up at the man with wide brown eyes in a cherub face. He blinked long lashes over the warm chocolate pools several times. "I'm not on a sailing ship or outside," he explained cheerfully. "I don't have to wear it."

The Helmsman stared at him silently. "I know who you are and I'm used to this," he advised the boy thinly when he spoke. Again, had the child not so obviously been trying to manipulate him, Sulu wouldn't have been so sure he was right about the matter.

"I know it's bad luck not to be wearing your cover. I don't know about exceptions, but I'm not taking the chance of you getting me into trouble. Get it."

Face clouding in defeat, Dimitri scowled at him with great drama before turning to obey. Sulu heard the mutter as the child seated his hat on his head in the other room.

"I know Russian," the Helmsman called out broadly. "And words like that should never come out of a face as pretty as yours."

The boy stepped into the archway between the rooms and stood motionless, fixing dark eyes on the man. "It won't always be this pretty," he observed somberly.

Sulu knew he was fishing for information. Damned skilled at it too. "I can't testify to that: you've seen him."

"So I wonder when I stopped using words like that."

The Helmsman gave in, smirking conspiratorially. "I'll let you know when it happens." He leaned over as the boy passed him into the corridor. "Never in public," he advised.

Eyes sparkling devilishly, Dimitri returned the smirk. "No," he agreed. "Can't spoil the innocent, wholesome thing."

"That would be a crime." The first female they passed in the corridor flashed the boy an adoring smile. As an afterthought, Sulu added: "Really, think of all the women you'd be disappointing."

The boy let out a whole-hearted giggle. Sulu glanced at him sharply, his face screwing up at the sound so incongruous to what he expected. But this wasn't his adult friend. This was, in hard fact, Chekov as a child. Sulu realized that when he got over his anger at the Navigator, the situation had endless possibilities. The Helmsman's own chuckle at the prospect brought a similarly startled look from Dimitri.

Possibilities were what confronted them as they stepped into the briefing room. Sulu froze, clutching the child's collar to stop him as his eyes fell on the Captain and his companions at the other end of the room. No wonder Chekov was testy: possibilities could be daunting.

"Is that my father?" Dimitri asked with quiet care, glancing from the opposite end of the room back to Sulu.

Hesitating before he answered, the Helmsman finally said "No," thinking it couldn't have any reasonable consequences. "Sit at this end of the table while I talk to the Captain," he instructed then. "Read your book."

Sulu strolled toward the Captain and the Security Guards, unable to take his eyes from the two crewmen they accompanied. Computer viewscreens were a pale comparison to three-D, real life, animated humans.

He saw the man's double-take as he approached. Seeing his reaction, the young woman followed his line of vision and blinked with startled recognition when she saw Sulu.

_Well,_ he thought. _I'm still alive._

"Captain."

"Mr. Sulu," the ship's Commanding Officer returned with what the Helmsman recognized as exaggerated cordiality. Sarcasm: Kirk was irritated with his companions. It wasn't a good sign. Kirk knew the Helmsman was up to speed on the situation from their private conversation over the intercom, so he moved onto introductions.

"I'd like to introduce you to our guest…" He stopped and fixed the man that stood there with a glare, jaw hardening. "Stowaways," he corrected dryly. "Nikolai Chekov and Katya Chekov."

Sulu extended a hand to the man, but he made no move to take it. Face sullen; his rigid arms were clenched across his chest and brilliant blue eyes bored through the Helmsman with cold, hard anger. _Tatiana's eyes_, he thought. The intruder was a pillar of immobile stone. After first glance, Nikolai could never be mistaken for the always warm, teddy-bear of a man that was Chekov's father. He may have looked like Andrie, but he was definitely heir to the Navigator's hot-tempered personality.

It was the young woman that took his hand, glancing at her brother with an apologetic shrug. "Unc…Mr. Sulu, it's a pleasure."

The Helmsman's smile warmed. _Uncle Hikaru…_ "The pleasure's definitely mine, Katya Pavlova. You're the vision of your mother." He preferred blue eyes to Chekov's brown ones in the visage, but he was no genetic engineer.

"And you," he remarked, dropping her hand to regard Nikolai dismally. "Are just like your father."

The man's head jerked up, startled, and the anger in his eyes flared to rage. "I am nothing like my father," he retorted indignantly.

Sulu burst out laughing. "Oh, no," he agreed broadly. "No, you're not."

Amusement skittered across the Captain's face and through his hazel eyes in obvious agreement. He didn't voice it. "Mr. Sulu, you needed to tell us something regarding our situation?"

The Helmsman nodded. "Yes. You need to know that Chekov thinks he's dead."

Nikolai rolled his eyes, screwing up his mouth into a sneer. "By the grace of God."

Both Kirk and Sulu regarded him darkly. He responded to the scrutiny with an indignant straightening of his shoulders: an entirely familiar gesture to the Enterprise officers.

"I can't imagine the psychological pressure this is putting on him," the Captain acknowledged, turning his attention to Sulu. "We need to have McCoy…"

"No," the Helmsman corrected the assumption he realized he'd given Kirk. "I mean in their time frame," he said, indicating the two grown children. He shook his head before either could respond. "It's not important if he is or not and I'm not sure we should know. But Captain…"

Stopping, he thought of Chekov's carefully formed, substantial image of what history held in store for his family—whether he was in the picture or not. He considered the beautiful, fiery young woman the man leaped out of closets at and chased through the woods when they were supposed to be mushroom picking. "Captain," the Helmsman uttered. "I can't explain why, but I know Pavel Chekov and I can assure you that if he has any confirmation of how his life pans out…" he glanced at the young woman. "It would be disastrous and far-reaching, at the very least."

The significance of this information immediately flashed through Kirk's hazel eyes. He glanced sharply at Nikolai. "Do you understand this?"

"Yes," he snarled indignantly. "If he knows he's been around to torment us, we won't be born to be tormented. There's a thought," he rasped.

"Kolya!" the girl rebuffed. "It's not just about us: we warned you going into this."

"_We_?" Kirk asked, eyes narrowing as he took a careful pace toward her. "Who is 'we'?"

"Enough," Nikolai growled low in his throat. "We've said enough, Katya."

"You haven't even begun, mister," the Captain charged with a snarl, swinging on him ferociously. "You've invaded my ship, endangered the lives of my crew, and exposed the future of the galaxy to infinite peril. You haven't even begun to explain," he repeated.

"Well, now, I wish I'd met you before," Nikolai sneered disrespectfully.

"You're making it worse," the woman insisted to her brother.

"How could it possibly be worse?" the man alleged, jerking away. He jammed his shoulder into the bulkhead on the edge of the viewscreen, crushed his arms across his chest, and glared out at the stars with his back thrust toward the others in the room. Even turned from them, the complete darkness that seized his face was repellent.

"Oh, no," Sulu interjected immediately. "I don't put up with this sulking bullshit from him and I sure as hell am not going to put up with it from you. I'll knock it right out of your stupid, stubborn little head if I have to."

The man turned his head slowly and leveled his brilliant blue eyes on the Helmsman. For the first time the hard rage in them was gone. There was, instead, the subtle wonder of blatant recognition there.

Sulu shuddered. "And if you don't think I will, just try me."

Nikolai made no immediate response, and then just turned back to staring out the viewscreen sullenly. He muttered to himself ill humouredly.

"It's like being in a tin of small fish," Sulu supplied the translation to the Captain after a moment's thought. "The stars aren't even real."

An amused smile of affection skirted over Katya's gentle lips. "'Living in a sardine can'," she corrected respectfully.

"You aren't used to space travel," Kirk concluded, harsh eyes on the stranger.

He silently ground his shoulder harder into the bulkhead.

"I'm not sure how much of that information you should have," the young woman observed, a great deal of deference in her tone.

"I'll decide that," the Captain replied, turning his attention back to her. It was already abundantly clear to him that she was the more rational of the two. With a solid grasp of the intricacies of the situation, Katya had a command about her that told him she was in charge despite obviously being many years younger than her brother.

"How old are you?" he asked, smiling with a warm sparkle in the depths of his hazel eyes.

"Seventeen."

"So that would make you a fourth level classman in the Academy," he noted.

She didn't respond, but he detected a subtle shift in the color of her eyes that told the Captain he was right. "How did a Starfleet Academy freshman get hold of a ship with advanced cloaking capabilities?" he pressed. "Who did you leave on that ship?"

Her face calmed and long lashes fluttered over unreadable brown eyes several times in silence. Of course Chekov was still alive: she'd learned that from him.

Sulu was staring at Nikolai while the Captain spoke. The young man's stony countenance had dissolved him out of the conversation—purposefully, the Helmsman knew. His shoulder was still jammed against the bulkhead but Sulu could tell that his supposedly downcast eyes were not so. The intruder's gaze was clearly fixed solidly on the boy at the end of the conference table.

"Sir," Sulu said, shifting his dark eyes to Kirk. "I should get Dimitri out of here before Chekov shows up."

The Captain nodded approval, glancing from the boy to McCoy as he entered. "Log your hours baby-sitting with the First Officer."

"Yes, Sir," he acknowledged, turning on his heel to retrieve the boy. "Dimitri," he bid as he passed the child.

Hesitating when the boy made no response, the Helmsman repeated the summons with more force. "Dimitri."

The boy glanced up sharply from the book on the table before him and Sulu realized with some surprise that he'd actually been reading the thing. Hard copy books kept Chekov in another world when he was with them. That the child hadn't been eavesdropping actually caused Sulu some concern, however.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly, bending over the boy.

Dimitri nodded and he gave the man a knowing, gentle smile. "I wasn't meant to know everything before I turned nine."

Sulu chuckled and straightened. "C'mon, let's go find something to do."

"I'm supposed to clean the decks," he confided as he scampered after the Helmsman.

The man drew up short. "What?"

"I marked them with my shoes tap-dancing."

"The bastard," Sulu muttered. "We have maintenance. I'll have them take care of it."

"Watch it," Dimitri cautioned light-heartedly as he followed him out into the corridor. "Spoil me and you won't be able to live with me later."

"What makes you think I can now? Besides," the Helmsman added, flashing him a conspiratorial smile. "What if you're not supposed to know how to clean a starship's decks yet?"

"I see why I like you."


End file.
